


inimitable

by coffeecrowns



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: ASL, Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bechdel Test Pass, Disability, Domestic, Families of Choice, Friendship, Historical Inaccuracy, Minor Character Death, Multi, Muteness, Mutilation, Politics, Polyamory, Prompt Fill, Recovery, Rescue, Slow Burn, Violence, mute Alexander
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-08-30 03:58:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 35,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8517694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeecrowns/pseuds/coffeecrowns
Summary: Hamilton is captured by redcoats, who aren't nearly as amused with our witty, clever Hamilton. So they cut out his tongue. Which effects everything.





	1. opener

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fill for ham_kink , here https://ham-kink.dreamwidth.org/937.html?thread=30633, and it sort of went and ate my life. 
> 
> I don't think its super graphic, I personally don't have a high tolerance for gore, and but any descriptions of the removal will be labeled accordingly. This fic is more centred on the aftermath, recovery, and life with a disability. (I'm writing what I know.)

It's dark and it's cold. His fingers especially are sore, he is worried about frostbite, he is worried about the heavy manacles digging into his wrists. It's loud, just him and his thoughts as hes lost his voice from screaming obscenities at his captors. 

If he had known, he would have picked better last words. 

His captors, red coat scrum of the earth, snuck behind him while delivering a message to some of Hercules’s spies. They drug him behind, the handcuffs digging in, his dehydrated body flailing along. He grimaced at the thought. At least he was still now. He wants to laugh, though morbidly, he thought he had lost all semblance of dignity through that winter at valley forge.

 Again, if he had known, he'd know he had spoken to soon.

  
  


Vaguely, he regrets being good at math. He has no access to light, so his days pass by meals. He has no idea if they are regular, but he knows hunger well, and figures on average he gets two meals a day. (Meals being a generous word, he imagines his presence is starving the pigs.)

Which means he's been there two weeks.

He almost wishes they'd get on with it, the torture that is. He realizes this is taking so long because they know who he is. 

He was targeted. They don't want continental information, they want Colonel Hamilton's information. It chills him to the bone. If he is to view it in the worst possible light, he will not be getting out of this alive (though he doubts this). The best possible outcome: his excellency never lets him out of his sight.

 He'd take it. He feels as though he is rotting, along with the wet cold stones of his cell and the stale bread he is feed.

 

It is the third week when a red coat walks in. The look on the new man's face tell him one thing: whatever is next is going to suck.

(John is an _awful_ influence on his vocabulary.)

Three other men come into the cell. One carries a bag, metal jangling within it.

He has a bad feeling about it.

The second man to enter is the highest rank, judging from his medal. He has a cold glint in his eyes.

“Good evening, Colonel Hamilton,” says the man. He is barely repressing a smile.

He has a _very_ bad feeling about this.

 

He does not talk. He stands by it, as if there was never moments of doubt, of regretting that decision born of pride and stubbornness, after the event, anyways. During it though, well.

He cannot actually remember a consecutive chain of events. He has those events that repeat in his mind, looping on themselves, late at night, in his dreams, while he stares into space. They are interspersed with long swatches of blank area.

(They comes back, sometimes, unexpectedly, later)

Two men hold him. He cannot move, his legs are the size of their arms, he is hopeless overpowered, he is endlessly out matched.

One man beats him. He switches locations, surprising him. He wants to stop flinching.

The highest ranking man asks the questions. No red blood on his red coat. (His hands are still covered in blood, metaphorically, though the hands are deadly pale.)

He does not speak a word.

The one man starts breaking fingers.

To distance himself from it all, he thinks of the papers unfinished in his desk. He imagines Eliza’s eyes, kind hearted and warm in the darkness. Lauren’s freckles, hair, whose base figure should be happy but isn’t always. His Excellency, when the candles are nearly burned away, when he shelves his mask for the night. Lafayette’s elfish grin, Hercules’s solid presence and clever hands. Angelica’s paradoxical patience and sharp wit. And Peggy! For a moment, he even thinks fondly of Burr, fondly of the stubborn man’s exasperation.

It is so dark, the nights so long (he can tell because it feels colder and darker, though he may actually just be losing his mind), he can barely remember the shape of words. The shapes they make on other people’s tongues. He hopes he will get to write again. His finger still hurt, those he still possesses them all. He imagined locking all he knows in deep vaults, locked away, forgotten.

He cries out loudly each time a finger makes a sickly noise. Breaking internally, no blood means no infections, says a voice he hopes is an echo of John.

So then he starts lying. His head is usually swimming, but he tells the British to walk right into the trap he hopes his people are continuing. He prays.

It is quiet for another three weeks. His hands are healing, he thinks, he hopes. The bread is still awful, the cell dark and cold. He worries he is going mad, with the blank spots in his memories.

He does not speak, as there is no one to talk to. His lips hurt, he is parched and his mouth tastes rank.

But yet his dreams are vivid, full of colours and lights he is not sure he has seen. The worst are the dreams where he lives a day in his life, with Laurens or Eliza, and then he wakes again in hell.

(That hurts in deeper ways than the beatings ever could.)

He hopes, even in his position here, he has helped win their war.

 

Then the high ranking red coat comes back. His face has taken a bright red colouring, highlighting the barely healed cut and bruise on the man's face. He doesn’t need the man to tell him what has happened. The British fell for the trap, and he will never leave this cell, he probably won’t live to taste the god awful bread they bring him.

 “You lying bastard,” says the man.

 (Burr calls him worse.)

Three new men, one with the same bag, accompany him. Again, he is held down. Again, the third man sorts through the bag of torture implements. He can’t imagine why though, they will never believe another word he speaks. Oddly, this is satisfying.

His voice is rusty from disuse: “Do your worst, fuck-bucket.” (Peggy has been an even worse influence on his vocabulary.)

The high ranking man says, “We simply have to insure this will never happen again.”

All of it he remember, and none of it. There are long shadows, as the men bring in lanterns with them. Rationally, it is uncomfortable longer than it is painful. For moments or for years, it it sharp pain. There is blood on the floor, there is blood that dries on his face, he looks rabid, he looks savage. (He does not remember if these are words supplied by the redcoats or by his mind, but there are no good options.)

Then there is burning. (Later he is told that it was good, stopped bleeding, prevented infection, but he becomes ill on their shoes.) That is the worst of it. The pain is light, the light is pain and it is concentrated.

His mouth aches, when they are done with it. The redcoat is smiling, his face distorted from the poor light. They have taken his tongue. Dimly, he is aware of other pains, in his arms and legs, in the front of his neck.

 

He will never speak again.

 

There are tears on his face, and it seems his eyes are not his own, continuing to well up and overflow. He’s been crying for a while now.

“I suppose that deals with it, doesn’t it, Colonel Hamilton?” says the man. He is suddenly struck by the thought he cannot ask for this mans name. The redcoats leave him.

He sleeps, he weeps, he looses track of the days, alone in his now quiet cell, now quiet mind.

  
  



	2. adjustment period

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we now start with the actual plot. Exciting. 
> 
> No real warning for this chapter, references to Alex's injury but no major discussions of it.

The paper in front of him is blurring through his faulty eyes. The lights are both too bright and not enough. The ink shines and he’s struck by the fact that he has not written his own letters in a long time.

He feels ill, through his throat and lungs and _heart,_ and wow, he is going to have to get used to that again. Grief is bitter all the way down.

Washington is the one who writes the letter to Eliza, who upon receiving the letter will be a widow, if not in legalities, in spirit. Its not that he doesn’t trust John, but its been two months. The Alexander they receive will be very different from the one they lost.

Vaguely, he notes some commotion going on outside, and God forgive him, his best officers are all out grieving as well, and none of them can be bothered. But he doesn’t move to find out what it going on with his men. This is war, his soldiers die and they die and they die. All of them are good men. It is his duty to go out and see to the ones who are living.

He has still not written another word.

The commotion outside his tent grows, he sighs, placing the now dry letter into a drawer, it is selfish, but the dead will have to wait for the living.

Then Lafayette burst into his tent, stands and shakes. His uniform has bloodstains, but he looks unharmed, physically. He stands several shades paler.

“Major General. It is not your blood, I presume,” he hears himself say.

“No Sir. Its-”He falters. “We have him. Alexander lives.” He feels his mouth drop open. “He is alive. Laurens could barely let go long enough for the doctors to look at his hands.”

“His hands? What happened?” He feels foolishly naive. Torture. Hamilton was tortured. 

Instead of an answer, Lafayette becomes violently ill. George is uncomfortably reminded of a truth of surviving as a commander: of fates worse than death.     

 

Hamilton wakes in phases. Firstly; pain. He does not know it if the pain comes from the redcoats or from the light or from brief moments he remembers on horseback. He believes he has been rescued. More importantly, he hopes and prays he has been rescued, because despite the pain, there is something soft, something warm, and if he wakes to the cell haunting his last coherent memories, he is sure he will succumb to insanity.

Soon enough, he can distinguish between pain and warmth, his hands are the source of pain, but his feet are heavenly warm. But his throat feels like he has been eating splintered wood. The world comes into painful clarity when he tries to form a word, any word, but he _cannot._

He has no tongue.

The noises, the animalistic sounds of panic send him spiraling, he cannot stop making them and he cannot stop being terrified of the crushing reality they spell for him.

He hears, distantly, someone calling him.

“Alexander, everything is alright,” someone is telling him. He does not know the voice, and he is grateful that he is not being lied to by a man he calls friend. He does not believe that, he has not believed that in a while, if ever.

“Breathe,” commands another voice. This voice he knows. John. His John Laurens. Breathing, he can do that.

The first deep breath in hurts. The second burns. The third almost makes him wonder if he did die and has gone to hell.

He is given something to drink. Some water, which is a struggle to swallow. Then, something new. _Whiskey_ , his brain supplies. He manages it quicker this time.

“Good,” he hears from above. It’s John. He loves John. He tries to tell him this, then is again reminded of his new disability. The rush of grief is the last coherent thing he remembers for a long time.

It is just him, his thoughts trapped inside, and somewhere, distantly, those he loves.

 

John is trying to keep calm. John is trying to remember that it is good Alex is not awake much, or coherent ever, because of the pain. Somehow, there is not infection to the brutal mess of Alexander’s mouth and neck. The bruises have faded from the neck, the inside of his mouth is largely healed over. There is one cut outside his mouth, a jaded line running vertically, parallel and two fingers to the right of his nose. There is a deformity in his neck, on the top, thank the Lord.

Too many good men are gone after having the backs of their necks bashed in.

Alexander has spent most of the past few days asleep, recovering. He had a slight fever, tossing and turning, but he seems to have quieted down. Washington makes point to find some reason to walk by everyday. Lafayette is there as often as he can, and is the one who usually drags John to his tent at the end of each day.

They are all exhausted, more so than usual. The nights are late, and they do not discuss how skeletal their dear Hamilton has become. He is normally thin, they all are these days, but man lying in the sick bay is so much worse off than the rest of them.

Three days in, John is ready to start climbing walls, restless and lonely. He is an aide, but he can’t remember a word he has written since the rescue.

That night, Lafayette asks the question, “How do we keep Hamilton from damaging his hands. We are blessed with a miracle that he can't demand a pen, but with - with the circumstances being what they are, he needs a way of communicating.”

“Broken fingers are dangerous as they are. We must be extremely vigilant to ensure dear Alexander can write, ideally soon.”

“He may listen to reason,” the Major General offers.

John snorts, “He may listen to protect his ability to write.”

"We must find a method of communication without hands nor mouth, is that all?” Laf quips, more and John knows the surface rudeness is just a façade for the ultimate issue: anxiety, guilt, and exhaustion.

“Sarcasm doesn't become you,” He says instead. “And it also needs to avoid taxing Hamilton anymore than necessary.” He wonders how they’re going to get through this one.

The other man stops, in thought, and then gives a smile.

“You are absolutely right, we know how mon petit lion feels about unfair taxation.”

John buries his face in his hands at the pun, but smiles anyways.

Apparently their going to get through this like they’ve gotten through all the other days in this war, puns, and the irrefutable, inexplicable need to move forwards.John falls asleep next to Lafayette, both of them needing it. He can still see Alexander's disbelieving face when they broke into his cell. Lafayette whispers, "We got him, we've won."

 

The memories he actually remembers start about a week later. He sees John beside him.

He is about to open his mouth, reassure his dear Laurens. Then he remembers and the deep sadness icy in his gut returns.

 _Alright._ He thinks to himself. He looks at John, hoping the other man will wake so he doesn't have to move.

John may be in position in something supernatural, as he looks down at him after precious few moments.

“Good morning, Hammie,” John smirks. His merriment is obvious, but in his eyes Alex sees relief.

He glares at the upright man.

That done, he knows if John is joking there’s not only a plan but he’s joining in three steps in. This dance he knows well.

“Oh, it is good to see you regaining your character.”

Both crack a smile at that.

Johns smile then abruptly fades, “We are worried we have reached you too late. My rescue of you took two weeks to execute after you were confirmed missing. I am sorry. You will not regain your voice. Between your lack of tongue and damage to vocal chords, that is.”

Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton felt he reacts well, with acceptance and stoicism. Lieutenant Colonel Laurens recalls relief the other man was lying down when he was told, since he nearly fainted.

“Your hands, though, they will recover, providing you _give them time to heal_ ,”

Hamilton rolls his eyes. Realistically, he knows his hands are already healing. Moreso, as if they have _time_. He is well aware from the pain in his head and inability to use his hands it is too risky to send him home until he is healed, at which point he will have figured out how to be useful again.

“I'm so glad you feel that way. The Marquis and myself have devised a plan to ask you questions. We ask a yes or no answer question, you will blink once for yes and twice for no. Do you understand?”

Hamilton managed to _blink_ sarcastically.

“Do you understand that in your condition, the malnutrition and state of your hands, not to mention you would need some sort of communicator to make the trip with, we can’t send you home?”

He blinks again. A vain thought skirts his thoughts: _it is good I am used to having to think several steps before others, which ought to save us precious time_.

“I am glad you are clever enough to think your way through these things. However, there are some rather important tasks.”

He knows he is injured and his friends are all incredibly busy, of course Laurens must go. It must show on his face, as Johns next words are, “For instance, would you allow me, in all my inarticulate ways, write your wife a letter?”

 Well, that doesn’t even need a thought, so he blinks. Any hardship can be weathered if he has John and Eliza on his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> puns are in fact a literally device. almost like I'm a real author. 
> 
> Anyways if you leave comment/kudos I will probably cry. Thanks.


	3. letters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you!! This is being so kindly received and I wasn't super sure about posting it so thanks for being so so kind! 
> 
> (Also please don't ever expect regular updates because I am a Mess)

What gets him, when it all catches up to him, he is stroking Alexander's hair, whose face is peaceful, and the irony feels a physical blow to the chest. He's seen and given and grieved over these strikes, and suddenly he can barely breathe.

John Laurens, for the first time since leaving South Carolina, is afraid of uncertainty.

It did not hit when he lead a search-and-rescue, not upon delivering Hamilton to the doctors. His friend looked awful, pale and blood covered, bruised and beaten, physically. Mentally, they would all have to wait. Later, when the bruises stopped masking the permanent _dents_ in the neck, the sheer horror of the cruelty of the British.

His beloved Alexander, without tongue, without voice. Lafayette became ill on the spot, His Excellency paled when told, the blood rushing from his face like-

He won't have a clear idea of what happened in Alexander's mind the first time he woke upon rescue, scraping the surface of recovering. He remembers, confusion, then realization, then panic and the a look, which he had no idea would swiftly be embedded in his mind. It was a look of resigned stubbornness, dismissal of dignity, straining the spine and standing his ground.

Great God what a General he would have made.

The thing is, it was not the look of a man in mourning. John never found out if it was a lack of mourning or an endlessness of it that lead to the scrappy stubbornness Alexander possessed. It did not matter.

Their eyes met, relief flooded both. Alexander was in pain, obviously, but managed a smile, not grimace. John's own heart grew at the sight. What does Hamilton know, what does he understand?

The man has a gift of being clever beyond relief. And apparently, trapping John in a vice grip. He smiles fondly, he loves Alex more than he has words to describe. So he strokes the man's hair in a way he thinks is soothing, and desperately doesn’t think about how there is no solutions.

Lafayette is the voice of reason. He drags John from the medical tent into the one where their beds are set up.

“You do not have a lot of choices, mon ami,” the Frenchman says, raising an elegant eyebrow.

“That seems better than most decisions we make these days,” he says before his mind catching up with his mouth. He looks down, half ashamed. Lafayette's mouth sets its position, pinched slightly.

The facts are these: Hamilton is mute. Hamilton will remain mute. Hamilton has broken fingers and if he tries to write now, he will be so horribly arthritic he will have no method of communication. They need some untaxing form of communication, temporarily and then a permanent one, that doesn’t involve writing.

“So we need a new body language, just for him,” John says.

“Oui. Ideally we master it before we teach it to him, or everyone will be frustrated.”

First though, it is them who are frustrated. Lafayette writing letter to people who may have ideas, John scanning his brain for any knowledge he stole from life sciences years ago.

John has no real idea how he's getting away with this. Sure, within technicalities he _is_ acting as an aide. Technically. Just as an aide to Hamilton not his Excellency. But all he can really do is talk. John talks about softshell turtles and dreams of ending slavery and how when this war is over, he does not know what he will do.

(Alexander thinks to blink twice, but he cannot convince John that obviously, he will come to New York, they will be new men once more.

Back when they both had a share in tragedy, Alex and Lafayette had John onboard with the notion of there being nothing for him back in South Carolina. Alex would like to tell Gilbert about John’s faltering. Alex wants to drag John home, bake bread with Betsey, he _wants_. But there is no blinking pattern, no gesture fine enough to tell John that whenever he is lost he has refuge is Alexander’s heart.)

So instead, together, John writes a letter to Eliza. Each line is debated, Alexander blinking “no, no, no,” until it is finished. It describes his injuries (non-graphically), why Alexander isn’t on his way home (can’t hold a horse’s reigns, don’t have the men to spare, and in subtext, pride), and the frustrations on the lack of a language.

They've been at it over an hour and they don't have half a page yet.

John didn’t think it was possible to compose things with Alexander slower than when Alexander wanted to argue a point, a word, a comma, but this is far worse.

“Is there anything you wish to tell her about your capture?” Asks John, gentler than their previous banter.

Hamilton shoots him an icy glare, blinks twice.

(It's not that he doesn't need or want to describe the two months he spent away. It's more that he doesn't think that this is a convention he wants to have this horribly inefficiently. He doesn't want Johns words in his mouth, so to speak, he wants his own.)

They press on, Alexander because he is stubborn and John, well, it doesn’t occur to John to be anywhere else.

 

They wait for a reply, they watch carefully for infection, Alex moves his fingers carefully, walking the thin line between keeping pain and stiffness at bay and his own stubbornness. John comes to his tent exhausted most nights.

Until he walks into the tent he shares with Laf, who is holding a letter like it holds the answer to their prayers.

“There is a man in France, Abbe Epee, who teaches a language of hand signs! He is documenting them, and will be sending copies as soon as he can!” He is grinning. They are both grinning. “Anything for a person aide to His Excellency General Washington!” Suddenly they are laughing.

“Hand signs!” shouts John, really too late for the noise but he is thrilled.

“The best part,” Laf continues, “He’s sent us an alphabet of hand signs, and also yes and no, surely we can get through our first 28 in a night?” He says it as if a challenge, they way he teases men of equal rank. It's warmer tonight, there is no elfish grin, there is only pure joy behind his dark eyes.

They are up until they have burnt all their candles, and for the first time since Alexander’s capture, John doesn’t feel like he has spent the day running in circles.

 

Alexander wakes to two letters. “One from Eliza and one from a Abbe Epee,” says John, dropping them on his lap. Alex is confused by the contrast of John’s mood compared to the dark circles under his eyes. “Abbe Epee teaches a sign-language in Paris.”

“So far it's just the alphabet, but he is sending more words as soon as possible, as many as possible.” John says, knowing what will excite his friend.

John, technically, is wrong, it is not just a alphabet. There is a short paragraph, where the Abbe describes “name signs,” and he urges them to wait until they have more words to work with. They are a beautiful, creative thing, one of the Abbe’s favourite parts of the language. He is already excited.

Alex can tell John is worried about the state of his hands. They are very nearly here, but he can feel the need to learn this language, the ability to string together words a short practice away. It runs under his skin, a drumming _need_.

So, slowly he practices each one. His fingers are not overly stiff nor overly painful. He runs through the alphabet three times, then he flips the page over. John, dear clever John, understands.

“I’ll test you,” John says, and he is also smiling. Thinking for a moment, Alex isn’t sure if John has stopped smiling yet today, or if the weeks of grim faces is distorting his memory. Either way, John is beautiful.

He only gets two wrong. After numerous rounds, his fingers are stiffing up. So he signs, _T-H-A-N-K-Y-O-U_ , to John, then yawns. John yawns in response, then to Alexander’s surprise and delight, signs _S-U-C-H-A-G-O-O-D-S-T-U-D-E-N-T._

Alex is struck by a thought, points at the letter and tells John to _S-E-N-D-I-T-T-O-B-E-T-S-E-Y._

“Of course,” John replies, the first words spoken aloud in what feels like hours.

His fingers do now really quite hurt, so in lieu of spelling out anything else, Alex mocks blowing a kiss.

 

Then he opens Eliza’s letter. It speaks of sympathy and love. She has half a mind to borrow a horse or two and ride out here herself, but was talked out of it. Likely to sooth him, she mentions her day to day inanities, of the ongoing feud with their neighbors and their tiny yappy dog. They don't let it out enough and it breaks her heart.

He really loves her so much. He closes his eyes, for a few minutes, nearly overcome with it.

She has written how much she loves him. 

For a moment, he thinks of taking John and going home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is low-key inspired by how me and some friends memorized the ASL alphabet at a sleepover once and still use it. Also inspired by how much post-broken bone arthritis sucks, because I could write a lot on the subject. 
> 
> I have a lot to say about sign language that is no way necessary to enjoying the fic, so if you are tapping out now, thank you for getting through this and kudos and comments are better than coffee at this point. 
> 
> History time! Okay so Abbe Epee was a real dude, who was head of an abbey (thus the his title), and the first free school for sign language. He taught a very close, but older relative of FSL, which in turn is very closely related to modern ASL. In this fic I'm going to be using ASL, because I'm most familiar with it, and its really close to being plausible in canon. (If you suspend disbelief and I do some hand waving, pun intended.)  
> So ASL is a super cool language that started with two guys named Laurent Clerc, who was deaf, grew up learning Epee's FSL, Thomas Gallaudet, an American looking for an FSL teacher. The two came to the US and started a school together 1817. Like I said, basically overlapping canon. Clerc had a super interesting life and is super rad, but long story short he was like "hey, every community of deaf people have genius ways to do this and a lot of my stuff is inefficient." Also, the story goes that Clerc taught Gallaudet FSl while Gallaudet taught Clerc to read and write English, on like, the ship ride over. 
> 
> (Shout out to curiouswildflower for knowing more about ASL history than me and being awesome)
> 
> Also, I am not a sign-language user in my day to day life and if I am portraying anything poorly/offensively Please Let Me Know!!


	4. eliza

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap you guys, this seems to widely enjoyed. I do have a plan moving forwards and this chapter is largely to buy me some research time. Hope you like it!
> 
> (Also this one is short)
> 
> For context: Catherine is actually the Schuyler Mother's name, Phillip Schuyler was a also a military man, and Schuyler mansion is in Albany, some 100 miles away from New York City in a pre automobile society.

For the moment, she is living with her parents at Schuyler mansion. It's not a bad place to be, but yet she touches her wedding ring most days, and thinks of Alexander and a home together. She saw him a month ago, which was lovely but it's becoming more evident they could use the privacy.

(She's a married women and doesn't blush at the memory.)

She doesn't mind Albany, though it's so far from the city. There is going to be great things here, but she longs for the city. Her and Alexander, a small staff because she shares his dream of ending slavery, her staff will be paid not owned.

She gets coded letters from Martha Washington, who she addresses as Martha and who calls her Eliza. She’s on a first name basis with one of them most powerful women in their country. (It is a country, already, in her mind.) Things are going well. The campaign flourishes under the Baron Von Steuben. Martha also lets her know about Alexander's well being. Under the code as Martha’s tomcat, which she decided early on was a story she didn't need to hear.

Alexander himself writes often. But he doesn't talk about himself except for her to know that he's safe, he's keep from the front lines. He is not happy about it, but it calms her heart. (When she reads it sometimes, after nights of terrors, she'll pray, “ _thank you for keeping him safe.”_ )

He writes almost an equal amount about the strategy and plans, all coded of course, traps he wants to set for the British, how they are arguing about a large battle in Yorktown, Lafayette has brought resources but they have to be smart about it.  He also writes extensively about John Laurens. To an untrained eye, it is several pages of gibberish, and then pages of flowing, beautiful prose about the two of them.

(Eliza spent all her free time in the city growing up, she knows what she is looking at. She isn't angry, there is nothing stronger or more beautiful than love. She smiles at his words, and decides she best find a mailing address for John Laurens and tell him to visit lots after the war, that from her husband's letters she considers him family.)

Alexander is for lack of a better word, cute. (Peggy is a terrible influence and she loves it)

Her letters to Hercules are less frequent, he is busy, tied up in the middle of it. She can't visit in person, the British are everywhere, but he love his work. She is happier for it. She enquires about John, carefully.

She gets a letter back right away though. Hercules gives her where to write to Lauren's, where not to write to Laurens (some place in South Carolina). She doesn't speak of this to Alexander nor Martha. She can do patience.

She doesn't even tell Angelica, but that is because Angelica is busy. She's getting ready to sail to Europe in a few months. She would, but the circumstances are odd.

When it's all said and done, she doesn't send that initial letter. No one finds it, not even snooping Peggy, also living at home.

 

Then Martha and Hercules send her letters saying Alexander has gone missing, George himself tells her about the capture. The writing is gentle, but the bottom of her stomach falls out.

She weeps. Peggy finds her, curls up next to her and speaks soft, kind words. Angelica next, sitting besides her, stroking her dark hair. Angelica has beautiful, piercingly dark eyes, Eliza notes, as her sister reads the official letter. Angelica sits stoic when she finishes, fingers paused mid movement in her hair.

She wants to have faith, and she does. If anyone will come back to her it's Alexander. But the whole situation is unfair, with Alexander having worked so hard only to be captured. She wanted to create a life with him after this is over. Hercules’s gentle coded words let her know the rumours about British prisoners.

If she gets her husband back it will not be the same man she once married. But if she gets him back, she can't imagine she'll mind.

After the initial breakdown, she pulls it together. She writes letters to Hercules, to Martha and George. She tells them to keep her informed, that she wants to know everything she can to bring him home.

They tell her to keep her expectations low.

She hopes, but dread sits low in her stomach. Eliza doesn't remember her dreams, but they must not be pleasant as she wakes most mornings nauseous.

 

She stops drinking coffee at Angelica's recommendation, who, aided by Peggy, tell her she's too anxious. They create calm by reading, and when Eliza is too jittery (the first time ever), they go out and ride.

Alexander left some clothes. So she wears a pair of his riding pants when the three sisters go. The woods are lovely, dark and deep, with cool crisp air. Its calming. That said, for the first time in her life, she’s winning any races.

(If she sleeps clutching his shirt that doesn't smell like him, well, Mary, the sisters maid, doesn't tell anyone.)

When she can't sleep, the three will sleep in each other's bed, like when they were little. There is nothing reassuring they can say, no promises that might not backfire.

(It breaks Peggy’s heart and Angelica has never felt so helpless.)

Instead they say, “I know, I miss him too.” It makes her feel better.

 

Angelica is out with Church, who despite being rather dull, seems to have snuck up on them all. Peggy is out. Eliza sits in the library, restless. She can out her plans for the future, she isn't overly superstitious, but she can't start these plans imagining Alexander in them only for them to fall apart.

She’s trying to write to Martha, but inquiring after “the poor missing tomcat” seems impossible. Her stomach is still fluttering.

Her mother walks into the library. Catherine Schuyler always seems so collected. Even at home, she wears full skirts. She sits near Eliza, in her space but putting no pressure. Eliza knows her family are watching her, she is technically a war widow but she has never believed in identifying by single labels. She doesn't have it in her to mind the supervision.

“How do you do it?” She finds herself asking.

Her mother pauses, as if to collect herself, “I keep busy. I stay hopeful.” There's another pause. “If Alexander doesn't return, then you will survive. You have found love and loved deeply. One day it will hurt, less, and you will be happy about it. It will only get easier with time. But you won't have him.”

She doesn't feel they need to say that no matter how this goes on, she would do it again. She is happiest with Alexander. That's the end of it.

Her mother continues. “If you do get him back, he will need you more than ever. Even Alexander, there may be things he won't talk to you about.” They share a watery smile. “There will be nothing easy, but you will have him.”

Eliza has decided she wants the second.

 

The day after the conversation with her mother is the day Alexander, over a hundred miles away is rescued. The nature of letters means Eliza has no idea.

Mentally she is relieved, the conversation with her mother has helped. She has always been stubborn, and she gets an odd feeling she doesn’t have long to wait. Physically, though, her body doesn't have seemed to receive the message. Mary is holding her hair while she becomes sick in the chamber pot.

Suddenly, she feels rather naive. She hasn't bleed since Alex’s visit. She has the morning sickness. Despite her lack of appetite, her clothes feel tight. It's been three months and she is certain she carrying their child.

She tells her sisters first. At first they are expecting the worst, as she is running through the halls in her pajamas. They shout and pat her stomach. This complicates everything, she knows. But she will not imagine a world where her child has no father.

(A world away, John Laurens holds her husband in his arms, the first kind touch he's had in months.)

She doesn't tell anyone else. She doesn't write any letters. She won’t distract from the rescue effort. She will not jinx this.

Over a few weeks, she gets letters. She cries loud and ugly, when she learns he's alive. She mourns his clever voice. It's been long enough she worries she will forget it.

(If it's the price to pay for his life, she will adjust.)

Ironically, she doesn't need the address Hercules gave her, John Laurens writes to her first. He's given her two things she can never repay: the first, Alexander, safe and cared for, and now this sign language.

He does an interesting impression of Alexander's voice in his letter to her, but the approximation has something else in it, perhaps the famed ‘southern charm’. He describes how they are writing the letter, and she gets a laugh out of it, the mental image. Then it strikes her why they are in the position and her heart hurts again.

In her response, she writes the words, “I am with child,” and “John, I wouldn't object to words of your own, if you would indulge me.”

Her and her sisters aggressively drill the alphabet signs to take her mind off the anxiety of the letter.

She is well aware that there is a lot, and that this cannot, will not be easy. She also isn't afraid, somehow. Regardless, this is already better than doing nothing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have a ton of notes for this one, but thank you for kind words and all your attention. I love kudos a lot and comments more, so don't be nervous to say hi! 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	5. rehab (well)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep telling myself, no this isn't going to get updated everyday because that would be crazy and yet here I am, updating again. This actually won't be the case all the time. 
> 
> This chapter is subtitled, "Occupational Therapy is not a job in the 1700's, There is No Therapy in the 1700's" 
> 
> Anyways, I'm pretty happy with this one.

Eliza, just her light, loving epistolary presence, is what is making all the difference. The doctor is letting him know that if Alexander doesn’t get better at eating, and soon, they are going to have a problem. (Considering how well Alexander looks now, problem is probably a euphemism for dead.)

Water is definitely the hardest thing for Alexander. His main cue to drink, pre capture, was when his throat was too dry for his words to be understood. John will come by with it, Alexander will make a face, John will say something to the effect, “You will never get out of here if you don’t”, Alexander will roll his eyes, take a mouthful to indulge John, then abruptly realize how thirsty he is.

It takes him a long time to get through small amounts. Neither of those two are improving, but he doesn’t send water into his lungs and come up coughing as much. The actual process involves Alex taking in a mid-sized mouthful, tilting his head back and consciously swallowing. In another world, it would be strange, but it gets the job done.

Food is yet another battle, that he isn’t really winning. Soft, thick, foods are the trick, but Alexander is sick of porridge and not used to eating much. He worries, but even with the look on his face, Alexander can only get through little bits at a time.

John gets help from unsurprising places.

First, Lafayette with his infinity better resources, brings Alexander better food. Still bland, but hot and smooth.

Lafayette is sneaky and stealthy and John loves it.

(John doesn't even need to know if Lafayette has walked in because Alexander suddenly looks very interested in the proceedings.)

 

Alex is hungry. It's good for his motivation. Combined with his fingers healing, his apparent mastery of the alphabet gives him a need to learn new things.

Alex slowly feeds himself from the steaming bowl Lafayette brought. Lafayette has a spare moment, and has fallen asleep in the spare chair. He's watching French nobility snore softly. He smiles at Alex who smiles back knowingly. He is amazed by what he defines as normal, and how quickly they’ve settled back into their orbits.

To give Alexander a little privacy, writes his own letter to Eliza. Her distance, her demeanour, her love of Alexander makes her the wisest person he knows. He gives updates on Alexander’s health, some anecdotes, and inquires about her. The Schuyler’s were once more myth and now he hasn’t had the time to really know her, any of them.

He wonders, absently, if she can provide any motivation for when the novelty of it all wears off.

 

In the meantime, they've gotten a new letter. It's from the Abbé, and he's send hundreds of painstakingly drawn out signs. Alexander is elated. With his hands nearly healed, he needs to his fingers a lot, but without too much weight. This signing is helpful for him, for his recovery.

Alexander conveys they should send the new signs to Eliza, which John supports. He asks Lafayette if they can spare an aide to make a copy for her. Lafayette assures him it will be done. He is strongly supporting acting soon, a decisive strike in Yorktown, drive the British away. They have the French forces, it could be over soon. They share the opinion that the Battle of Yorktown has a nice ring to it.

(Elsewhere, a little later, Aaron Burr, in the prestigious position as aide to General Washington, copies down two copies, one to send to Mrs. Schuyler, and one for his own learning. He tells no one about the latter. Burr is always worried he is, well, boring, and in this holding of their breath,, he has the spare moments to practice. It’s a practical skill. It is inevitable that he will spend more time with Hamilton, given the circumstances.)

Lafayette no longer sleeps when he can a moment away, instead, him and John are practicing signs. There is so much to learn. Locations, food, general words that are boring but required for language to function. Feelings, colours. There’s no real tenses or grammar to worry about, which is what killed John when he attempted French. Every movement matters. It makes it distracting to watch Laf sign, who is used to using their hands whenever possible. (The Major General points out that John does it as well, and they laugh, because it's late.) They don't get a ton of sleep, but every day Alex manages a little more food, has a little more energy, and learns a little more.

(“The Hamilton Approach,” jokes John in his working letter to Eliza, “Sleep is unnecessary when you can exist on brilliance.” He imagines she gets it.)

 

One afternoon, John takes him out of the medical tent. A walk. It's much needed. Alexander is woozy, so John leads him by the elbow. Alexander is still too light, more wraith like than anything else.

The day is a nice one, lightly and warm. John can feel Alexander's pulse, steady and present. They walk down to a nearby tree overlooking the river running by camp. It's not a far walk, the brief stroll seems to serve him well, he has colour to his cheeks, he seems to stand taller in the sun.

He seems tired again by the time they make it to the tree, and so John asks, “Do you want to go back?”

Alexander signs, _No_ and _Stay_ and _Together_ and then points to himself, signs _Happy_. Simple words, but John’s read through the notes as well, and now, with limited words between them each one is important. Each one's order and placement and timing. He feels like he’s watching something special.

Alex regains his breath after a minute of sitting against the tree. It's a warm enough day to consider bathing in the river, well, warm for the North. Both him and Alexander would be cold on a day like today before they survived a few winters. Alex has had the blood scrubbed off but precious little else.

“Would you like to wash up?”, he asks. _Yes_ , Alex signs, which looks like he’s knocking on a door. Or nodding.

“Stay here, I’ll be right back with soap,” John is already standing up. He’s planning on stealing some of Laf’s fancy kind. Alex signs, where, but with a raised eyebrow and smirk. Teasing. Alex already has a decent grip on the language.

He sprints back to his tent, digs through Lafayette’s trunk. He finds some nice smelling soap, rose maybe, another one more earthy. Whatever, he doesn’t need to know these things. He’s a soldier, he’s a new cloth from his father. That said, the soap is oddly nice and worth attention. He also grabs changes of clothes. There is no need for musings on that.

 

Alexander hasn’t moved from his position. His hands run through signs randomly, practicing, and John is at too great a distance to distinguish which is which. His brow is creased, and he looks deep in thought. Upon closer gaze, he’s shaking his hand in the shape of the letter p, pointing up at the sky with just his index fingers, moving flat hands out from his shoulders.

He stops when he sees John, signs, yes in. John smiles, or he hasn’t stopped. Doesn’t matter.

The both strip, down to their smallclothes. Efficiency. There might be something to it, more than John helping a friend, but Alexander is frighteningly thin. He can count his ribs.

The water is frigid, so they are quick, stand close. John signs _Come here_ , and Alexander nods and complies. They scrub each other's hair, they both like the feeling. (It came up a while ago.) John is relaxing into Alexander's hands, gentle, a touch unsure. He makes sure to make an appreciative noise. The hands in his hair get more sure, and he is glad. There are suds gently trailing down the river. Its peaceful, despite it all. 

They are both shivering, though Alexander more so. They are cleaner than they’ve been in ages. The fresh clothes are better than imagined. John impresses Alexander by taking off his small clothes from under his breeches. The walk back is faster, because Alex is sure on his feet, and also ready to crawl into bed. Lafayette has heard of their adventure, or is omnipotent, one of the two, and has brought them hot food. Very soft and thick stew. Alex manages a full portion, faster than ever. The other two are now used to the process, and it is no longer a source of discomfort, but a welcome sight.

Alexander falls asleep quickly after eating. Lafayette and him sign back and forth, discussing this and that. The conversation isn’t as fast as when either talks to Alexander, but they manage alright. Lafayette describes plans for Yorktown, which after the British fell into their trap, looks good. John talks about the letter he is writing to Eliza, not what's in it, (the contents Laf can know he does, the stuff that he doesn’t know it private.), but why he’s writing. Then Lafayette jumps, makes a noise like, “OH!” It's the first noise they’ve made in well over an hour.

(Elsewhere, right then, His Excellency George Washington sits in a tent with Aaron Burr, and no one else, in silence. Burr doesn’t find it awkward, because Burr is scribbling away. George had sent the Major General on a five minute errand. This is what he gets for letting Lafayette deliver the letter.)

Lafayette pulls out a letter. “From Eliza,” he explains. Alexander cracks open an eye, throws out a hand demanding the letter. The noise had woken him, Eliza’s mention was enough to prompt him into motion. Its cute. (John has no idea where he picked up the word.)

Alexander rips open the envelope, reads. His mouth doesn’t drop open, but it's a near thing, his eyes wide. He drops the letter, reading it again. Then he is smiling. There are tears in his eyes. John has an idea of where this is going.

Alexander hands the letter to John, hands a touch shaky. He signs _baby_. John reads through the letter, there's a note to him, specifically, in a wife’s letter to her husband. (It keeps him up, finishing his response.) Then she informs him she believes she is with child, the signs are there and she is seeing a doctor shortly.

Well then. “Eliza is pregnant,” he says as his explanation to Lafayette, who doesn’t get to read the letter himself, and Alexander is using his left hand to hold it against his heart. Lafayette responds, “Do we know that sign?”

John tries to reach out to hold Alexander’s hand, but he takes it away and drops the letter to sign _baby_ again. Then _father_ , pointing to himself. He looks happier than John has ever seen him. Then Alexander turns to him, really narrows his eyes. He points to John, signs, father, us, together. Each one feels punctuated, like he wants to make sure John gets the message. He spells out _E-L-I-Z-A_ , signs, _us, baby_ , then finally, still with that elated look, _home_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So ASL has dramatically different grammar/tense/structure rules than spoken languages, has no official/universal written form, and is awesome. I hope the signing is enjoyable and works, I was trying to find a balance between describing a lot and the actual words. 
> 
> My mentions of the actual war are small and unspecific because I am Canadian and have never ever studied the Revolutionary War, so if there is glaring inaccuracies, please suspend your disbelief and assume its Hamilton lying to the Brits in the first chapter that have screwed with it all. Thank you.


	6. yorktown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> count to ten!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The format here is different because its the fastest way I could get this one together. Yorktown rolls out similarly to the musical so I wasn't going for a big epic here. I hope you enjoy.

1.

Alexander is alone. He woke with a start, chest heaving, stomach fluttering, and he is _alone._ Then his eyes adjust to the dark, he sees the distant lights that promise dawn, the heavy fabric of the tent.

He is safe. He was rescued. He has signing and a child on the way. He manages to calm his breathing down.

Then, John. John has fallen asleep on the chair, and is snoring. He stopped by late last night. It's official, Siege of Yorktown, they are going to force the Redcoats hands. John spoke passionately, aloud, his hands are sore from the sheer amount of progress they make. It's good, it's so good.

He wants the war over. He is done with his naive idealism of the glory. He still wants to win, he wants to win decisively, to set the precedent on how their nation handles violations of freedom. He believes they will win. He stills believe in their cause, even more so now, if anything. But he wants it over very quickly, wants his city to bounce back quickly, and he wants to go home. He wants to see Eliza.

And he never wants to see another damn red coat again, they occupy his dreams and he is done with them.

It's early morning, he can tell by the wet chill in the air. It's not a bad morning, all things considered. He has no real desire to make a noise and alert John. He flexes his fingers, makes nonsense movements. Just warming them up, like a singer with their voice. He doesn't really have patience for taking things easy, but it's calmivg. His hands, warmer now, still seem sleepy. He looks to John again. John says they will take down the camp today. He decides he can steal another few minutes of sleep. Alex gets to watch John wake in the chair, crack half a dozen joints, wince slightly. He can't help laugh a little bit. He demonstrates stretching, with the intent to chastise John, except his shoulder pops as well.

Today, everyone prepares. Alexander is going to be hidden away in Hercules apartment in the city. He is up and awake these days. John laughs at him, but his eyes are tired.

He doesn’t have a chance to sign anything, “I’ll be back in a few with breakfast and coffee.” Coffee, which he can’t really taste, which is unfortunate, but he has the smell and warmth in his stomach. When he gets home he’ll be less happy about not being able to taste Betsey’s food, but he’ll be happy to be home. And that will be soon. The end is so close he can taste it, so to speak.

Alexander eats quickly and John eats slowly so they stay on a similar schedule. Preserving time. John is going with the rest of the men, and Alex is not.

 

2.

Lafayette dresses alone in the dark. John must have fallen asleep with Alexander. Good. He rubs his face. He ties back his hair. He straps his sabre to his side. He used to relay on that above all else, given a chance he would face his battles one on one, armed with that sabre. Maybe a horse.

His time here has taught him the power of the groups of men. John was right, there are s _o many more of them_. And they trust him, him a foreigner, unpaid, once believed to only be in it for the glory. He had always believed in this war. He still believes in this war.

He breathes in, John is no longer trampling the wilderness looking for Alexander while Lafayette helped lead the charge South. Though John lost his dream of a black battalion in the South, he has gained more time in less desire times. They will all see their fight finished. This he believes above all.

Thats better. He will help see this fight finished. Alexander has made his sacrifices and will raise his son in the country they built together. Just one last battle, then they have all the time.

  


3.

Aaron Burr practices signs while he marches. Nothing outrageous, the ones that would draw attention he imagines instead. Its eases the monotony of marching, not that he’s the sort that dislikes monotony. Though it is rare for him, he feels the fire in his veins. He feels too alive to be standing in long lines. He is a father, he received the letter this morning, so really he’s been a father for a week or so. Theodosia must be out of her mind with worry.

He pushes away the unimaginable, and keeps reviewing the signs he knows.

 

4.

Hercules is only sewing to keep up appearances. He knows, he knew first, that this battle will end it all. There’s no reason to keep stitching the damn jacket, the man it belongs to will soon be leaving his city, his country, in disgrace. Hercules can’t wait. Hercules actually really would like this to happen quickly so he can go back to designing and sewing frankly ridiculous outfits for his friends. He is the most well-informed man in the city. He knows they will win, he is waiting on that to be confirmed more than anything else.

He keeps sewing. He’s this dedicated to his act. A little longer won’t hurt. Pacing would be too suspicious.

 

5.

Alexander is left at camp. They are close enough for the soldiers to transport a few command tents, and weapons. This will be over quickly, so quickly it’s worth sleeping out under the stars. It's just Alex and a handful of women staying behind. Would have been his dream, once. Now he holds Betsey’s letter, practices signs nervously.

John marches. He thinks of Alexander letting him know that he doesn’t get to find out his name sign until he comes back. He thinks of Eliza, who knows not the date of their attack but much of the plan. She won’t know until it’s all over.

Eliza knows. Neither John nor Alexander know she knows. Martha told her. She talks the suggested homes in New York and Albany with Angelica, who’s heard them before. She talks to Peggy about what she should feed George Washington, when he undoubtedly comes over. Peggy, bless her soul, tells her that her bread needs work. It gives them reason to beat the crap out of some dough for a while. She has to find it in herself to believe they will all be alright. She has a lot to say. She can feel her child kicking. 

 

6.

The stars are bright. The stars are bright but Lafayette is going to sleep in a small tent with his Excellency. He hears fires roar while some men cook a boar they shot and killed. Americans. Frankly, he is exhausted, though it was barely two hours on horseback. His forgetting what its like to enjoy horses.

George walks in, looking weary. “Good evening, Mon General,” as they are in private, he says it while rising. George meets his eyes but then looks down.

“Not tonight, Gilbert,” says the man. Then to his surprise, leans in and embraces Lafayette. It takes the frenchmen a large number of seconds to remember what to do with his arms. Shocked. He kisses the top of Lafayette’s head.

“There is quite a lot,” Lafayette says, which he doesn’t believe is a proper sentence, but his a whole thought. The whole, eternity of his thoughts, actually. It all feels unreal and insurmountable.

“Yes,” George says. He doesn’t say anything else and instead lies on the bed.

 

7.

The Americans take the right, the French take the left. Positions of honour, bigger armies, whatever. City is surrounded. The fighting starts as the sun rises over the horizon and paints the city nicer colours than it has ever been. It feels like everything must be on their side.

 

8.

It is easier in the sense that there is not too much death. The streets not painted with blood. At least, not their blood, when there is. Its loud. Its loud and it smells awful, even by John’s standards. Rumour says the British are dying, unused to malaria and its getting to them.

John tells Lafayette that they should wrap this up soon, because malaria takes a month before the symptoms show, and the thousands aiding will all be sick. Lafayette says the British know they are losing. John signs _good._ He goes back to it.

 

9.

He writes. There is no one to talk to so he writes until his hands cramp and then he makes himself a little food, annoying, being on a set schedule of eating. 

He wishes he was there, among the fighting, among it all. He wishes he was with Eliza, wishes he could be with her while she  _carries their child._ Instead he is alone.

 

10.

John sees the flag. He can’t imagine a soul in Yorktown who _can't_  see the flag. He didn’t think there was material that clean in the city anymore. He imagines the whole country will see the flag. He hopes someone negotiating surrender grabs that flag. He wants to show the world that flag. He smiles. He is crying. He looks to his left to hope to Alex, and then he remembers it all. How did he forget, among the smoke and the violence? He never forgot what he was fighting for, but now it seems he doesn't remember as well as he wants to. He is alone at the moment. He spends a moment on all his absent friends. He misses Hercules and Alex and is crying harder. 

In the chaos of it all, he finds Lafayette. He finds Burr. Regardless of history, he hugs both. They smell terrible! He says it aloud, to their laughter. They are laughing and shouting, “we won, we won, _we won_!” He doesn't know how it was so quick. The years seem so long now. The years seem so short. Either way, it feels far away, long ago. 

The British march out, flags bundled and hidden, every inch screaming their loss. George didn’t mess around on those negotiations. They are playing The World Turned Upside Down. As if John hasn’t known that feeling for months.

But now he gets to go find home. Now he hopes to help built this country. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for all the kindness this little story is getting. Things are going to really start getting crazy in the next chapter when the three main characters actually are on screen together. (How did that take so long to happen??)
> 
> That chapter will be out sometime during the week, as instead of writing I will be crying over research papers and genetic engineering.


	7. the (henry) laurens interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you were worried about this chapter, please note the Canon Divergence and Historical Inaccuracies tags. (Though that second one is because despite my love for this little story, I hate the 1700's So Much.) This is yet another short one, because I have A Lot, but am apparently only motivated by this. So, compromise?
> 
> I know as a fandom we agree Henry Laurens is a dick and I both love and respect that, but I just wanted to play around a little bit. I hope you enjoy.

Its dusk when they arrive back at camp. Alex knows from the march they are playing that it’s a victory. Alex knows from the air that they won. John wouldn’t be surprised if it was the golden glow of dusk or they general air about them that tipped him off. But it's evident in every step. The reunion with Alex goes like this:

John doesn't run to him because he's exhausted and Alex doesn't run because he’s not built for it. They move pretty quickly. If they were horses, John might describe it as a trot. They cling to each other longer than anyone, including themselves, expect. It's nice. John smells like smoke more than anything else, Alexander has been bored enough to do laundry and take a dip in the river. Alexander is solid. Alexander is there. They’ve made it through. 

“You should have been there,” John says, when he finds his voice again. 

Alex reluctantly pulls away to respond,  _ yes, was bored without you.  _ He's smiling though, with less than dry eyes. 

“You're going to have to bored a little bit longer, his excellency convinced the British to release my father. He wants to talk to me.”

Alex stares at him. 

“I have to do this myself.”

Alexander looks doubtful and John can’t blame him.   
  


Henry Laurens is fine. He's a little thinner than he once was, but John hasn't seen his father since the war started. The years have gone by quickly. The man who sits before him resembles the one who buried his mother, not the one who believed in fame and pushed for John to do law. John sits, considering.  

“Jack, it's good to see you.” There’s a nickname he hasn’t heard in a while.

He's spent a long time in British captivity. That said, he's fine, he doesn't have a scratch. Its funny how that worked. 

“I'm glad to see you,” he says finally. Which is true, despite it all. 

“I heard from the General what you did for that man. Hamilton.” He sighs. He looks vaguely pained. 

John sets himself strong. He and his father have never seen eye to eye on what John should be doing. 

“I believe the term your generation is using is “throwing away your shot”? You had a chance to establish yourself in this world. You were supposed to be on the negotiations team-”

John sort of remembered that talk. Vaguely. The sleep deprivation might be getting to him. 

“-It was a golden opportunity to establish yourself while we establish our country. And I was so angry, I was so  _ scared,  _ when I heard you had gone off to lead a rescue mission. You are very lucky I didn't hear until after, young man.” 

He doesn't really know what to say. He doesn’t particularly want to say he’d do it all again, though that’s the truth living deep in his bones. He’d do it again and he wouldn’t regret it a second time round, he’d do anything at all for Alexander. On the other hand, his father isn't yelling (though he is cross), which is how these talks normally go. He isn't lecturing. He just seems lost. 

“I did what I thought was right.” John says. 

“I know,” says Henry Laurens. “You are not the son I thought I would have. But I am lucky to have you. And I am proud of you.”

If it wasn't for years of his father's politics, manners and decorum drilled into him, John's jaw would have hit the floor.

“I don't think you'll be happy doing my work. I wanted you to one day take my place. It all made sense in my head, I could help you along the way, you would have a good life.”

This is the most reasonable his father has been in years. He wonders if he should thank the British for this.

“I want you to be happy. You are a hero, and you will be successful in whatever it is you do. And you will have my blessing to do it.”

Well then. That's new. And honestly, less draining.

He finds his words. “I'm going to New York. The state, maybe the city. The Hamilton's need me. There's plenty to do.”

“Alright,” his father says. “I'm sure you will keep yourself busy. Though,”

Oh no.

“If you have a chance, though, please try and befriend that Lord Schuyler.” He says it with a smile. John’s father may be making a joke.

He gives a tentative smile back. 

“And, son, when you meet a women, I would like you to bring her home. I know you’ve been busy with all this, but I want nothing more these days then to have some grandchildren.”

He imagines Alexander in South Carolina, perhaps after ending slavery, and manages to smile while he shakes hands with his father. That's a conversation he wants to avoid. Today has been good and he would like to bask in it, just for this moment.

“When (if) that happens, I will come back. But until then-” He trails off. 

“You have my blessing for whatever you pursue.”

At least there’s that.

 

While John talks to his father, a pastime Alexander generally disapproves of, he writes to Betsey. Its partly a distraction and partly because he honestly, truly, deeply misses his wife. He needs to see her. He needs her to meet John. He desperately wants to the two get on. (What he wants beyond that is, unconventional, to start.) 

_ Though I am sure you have heard, we have won. I will be returning to you shortly. So to speak. I will be returning as soon as I am humanly able. Though I know we have eons of lost time to account for, a home to built, and a child on the way, I will be bringing John to New York with me. I understand you have been sending him letters, and hope you find his company enjoyable. He is the second most dear person to my heart, you, my love, being the first.  _

_ At the very least, I hope his presence will be beneficial to you as he has much practice with the sign language, and interpreting me.  _

_ I love you and am excited beyond belief to see you again (and met our child!!). It's only a matter of time. _

_ Yours,  _

_ A . Ham _

He won't get a letter while on the road, so he will hear her response in person. He can’t wait. (Of course he is assuming John will come back, but they could always sneak out in the night. He’s certain he can outsmart  _ Henry Laurens. _ )

  
  


John comes back to their tent. It will be one of their last nights. Soon, they will make their way up to New York. It's late, but the tent glows with golden candle light. Alexander is writing. Its nice to know that one thing has realigned. He enters the tent. It’s been their home for so long now. Alex is scratching away at the paper on his desk, but he looks up when John clears his throat. 

“Who are you writing to at this hour?” John asks. 

Alex just holds his left hand up in the letter  _ B _ and scrawls away. “B for Betsey?” He confirms, and gets a nod for his trouble. He watches the flourish he’s familiar with, Alexander signing his name (on paper that is).

“Have you gotten used to signing your own name instead of his excellen- Washington’s?” John asks, trying to make conversation. Alexander raises his hands, as if to respond properly, now that his letter is finished. Then he pauses and signs,  _ How was your father? _

“He was good. He’s had a change of perspective. He’s alright with me coming to New York, if you want.” He isn’t quite sure where they stand on this, but he doubts Alexander will keep him away. 

Alex is signing  _ Yes.  _ Well then. Then,  _ I want you to meet Betsey. I want you to be in my life. In my baby’s life.  _ The look in his face is one John has no idea how to decipher. All John knows is that he looks beautiful. 

“Then I will be there.” Alex still looks beautiful, but now, definitely relieved. 

Then his face lights up.  _ I have your name sign ready. Since we’ve won.  _

“What are you waiting for?” asks John, more excited than anything else. It must take two to wind each other up like this.

Alex holds his hands in loose fists, but with his first fingers pointing to the sky, reasonably close together. He alternates moving them up and down. This must be a new one, Alex must have a new letter from the Abbe, which will make the trip home more enjoyable. But he doesn’t know this sign. His face must fall a little bit. Alex signs,  _ I hoped it would be a surprise.  _ Then to John’s surprise, he takes his hand and leads him outside the tent. 

There’s just enough light from their tent, closer to the edge of camp, and the moon that John could see Alex signing if he focused. Good then. But Alex drags him, still by the hand, that wonderful point of contact, out of the way of some of the lights.

“You could just spell out the sign,” John says, describing the normal approach they take. But Alexander, deep down, is still has his flair for the dramatic, and instead points at John, then up at the sky. 

“Oh,” says John, dumbly. More emotionally then he means to, half whispered. “Stars, right?”

Alex nods, eyes wide. 

John could kiss him. In fact, now he would be very much interested in it. He settles for kissing Alexander’s hand. He blushes, but John doesn’t know, as it's too dark away from the light to make it out. Instead, they both look up at the stars. This might be the best thing about their new nation. 

As they walk back to the tent, John thinks of all the things he wants to get done in New York, the conversations to have with Alexander and Eliza, they places he wants to go, the books he wants to read. They approach their tent quietly. Once they can see again, Alex signs,  _ We have so much work to do.” _

He signs back,  _ Yes.  _ And he’s smiling. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stars! Stars! You guys I just really love space and romantic cliches. 
> 
> On Henry Laurens, personally, I find it awful to have really kind and loving, though flawed, parents who deep down, will never come around to how you want to live your life. And having to live with that. Its complex and awful and I love hurting my faves. 
> 
> Anyways, thank you thank you thank you so much for kind words and kudos, they really mean so much to me.


	8. reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took so long you guys!! I'm still not quick satisfied and also, welcome to sadness and lack of communication. Enjoy your stay!

They will be there any minute now. Her husband and the man who saved his life. She can’t wait to see them. She is described charitably by Peggy as “very pregnant.”

So she's very emotional about the whole thing. Whatever. She almost lost him, not that remembering it does her any good but it rings around in her head. She's dressed for breakfast. It's downright heavenly to not have to wear a corset. Heavenly. (It's the little things that are getting her through.) 

She sits down for breakfast, and signs  _ Good Morning _ to Peggy who signs  _ No _ . she assumes it's Peggy objecting to the morning and not the signing, as Peggy is getting quite good. It's just the three of them that morning. Angelica peels an egg, eats a bit of apple, drinking her coffee black. Peggy butters some bread, also eats an apple, and has put heaping spoonfuls of sugar. No one to tell her no, which is fair. Peggy, unlike her older sisters, is not a morning person. Eliza alternates between egg and apple, which taste very good to her. 

“Any word on when they'll arrive?” asks Angelica. She looks concerned. She knows Alexander is bringing John, and doesn't really know what to make of it. Her dark eyes are very beautiful and piercing, but not menacing (at least to her). Angelica is only concerned out of love.

Eliza wants to meet him properly. She doesn’t really remember much about meeting him, her wedding was a happy, beautiful blur. But she wants to thank him for bringing Alexander home. She imagines they will get on well, it takes a special type of person to love Alexander. Though is she slightly intimidated by it all, he has spent more time with Alex than she has. Not that it matters but. She can barely wait. She misses Alex, she misses him dearly and entirely, and they are just so close to building a life together. 

Catherine has a house in town that will suit their needs for now. If Alexander wants to move to the city, well, she’d be willing. But with their first child on the way, she wants her parents support. 

Before she can really get into it all, the butler, a man named Bennett, walks in and says, “Lady Elizabeth, you have a visitor. Colonels Hamilton and Laurens.” He says it very happily. There’s a bustle of noise, ungraceful motions of men unused to being  _ inside.  _

Then they walk in. 

She is standing before she knows really one way or the other what she is doing. (Her fork left unceremoniously discarded, napkin hitting the floor, she moves fast enough she nearly knocks over the chair.) 

She doesn't get a particularly good look at him before she is swept up. He is thinner than he once was, and she is bigger, and that difference might be odd but not insurmountable, and he must agree, kisses hard enough to knock the breath out of her. Mouth closed. It would make her sad but she has too much love and joy in her. She returns, equally enthusiastic. He places her down gently, puts a hand on her swollen belly. She places hers on top of his. Their child, as if they understand the importance of the moment, kicks. Her eyes met his, they are wide with joy and disbelief and have tears welling up on the edges. He is so beautiful. 

She signs,  _ I’m happy to see you,  _ and look on his face tells her he is as well. Then  _ I love you,  _ thought she says it along the sign, because she’s waited months to say it to him. It would seem impossible for him to grin any brighter, but he does. He signs back,  _ I love you _ and then closes his fist in front of his chin. Not closes, no, makes a letter e.  _ Name sign,  _ he explains. He gestures to her, then spells out  _ P-R-E-C-I-O-U-S _ . In lieu of saying anything else, lest her voice fail, she kisses him again. Their mouths stay closed again, Angelica and Peggy are standing as it is.

John, standing still, thinks to himself of the letter Alexander wrote to him once, with the words “by actions not words.” He smiles at how it has all come around. Then Angelica Schuyler is standing beside him. She looks immaculately put together, hair loose and flowing. (He can’t wait for Alexander to reveal her name sign.) 

“Colonel Laurens,” she says as greeting. She has a very puzzling look on her face. 

“Lady Angelica,” he responds. “It is nice to met you. Alexander has told me a lot about you.” 

She cocks an eyebrow, amused. “Oh?”

He decides not to tell her the long days of riding to New York, then the carriage to Albany, the hours together, John talking the day away, Alexander slowly, one handed finger spelling his response. Horseback and sign language mix poorly. He very much will not speak of the nights they seized the last room at an inn or pub, squished together on a bed, intertwined.  _ First do no harm,  _ his mind chides.

“He is quick to sing your praises.” He responds, kindly as he can. In reality, when Angelica was discussed, it was with no small amount of fear, though full of respect and what John would describe as loyalty.  Siblings, John has placed the label tentatively, trying not to think of his own back in South Carolina. 

“Well then, you have the advantage. I barely know anything about you. Except you seem to have taken marvelous care of Alexander.” They both look at the man in question, who has eyes fixed on his wife. None other. They look so content, so picture perfect content. John is happy about this, really he is. He is happy, he loves that he gets to witness this, that Alexander deems him worthy to be here. He is honoured and he loves this man, and through his minute letters with Eliza, he sees himself loving her.

It is not difficult. Well, how it feels to look at them is not easy, but he cannot say it is not worth it. 

His musing are interrupted. The youngest Schuyler sister looks more like Angelica than Eliza, but much shorter. She protectively holds a cup of coffee close to her, fingers wrapped tightly around it.

“I’m Margarita, but any friend of Alexander can call me Peggy. My name is not Margaret, I don’t know where they got that from.” The dichotomy between her kind tone and the threatening of the unnamed ‘they’, makes him a tad worried. 

“Honestly Peggy, dignity in front of the guests.” Angelica says, just her head tilted towards his sister. Then facing John again she says, “Peggy is dreadful in the mornings.” Peggy looks cross at being talk over, but seems to agree with the words. 

“You’re staying the night, right?” asks Peggy, she sounds enthusiastic. 

“I wouldn’t want to overstay my welcome,” says John, hesitantly. This catches Eliza’s ear. She finally turns to join the rest of them.

“You are more than welcome, after all you’ve done.” She says. “Besides, I’m already reaching the limits of what me and my sisters have practicing. We need you John.” Alexander nods beside her, he looks John in the eyes. John manages a smile. 

“Thank you, really,” he says. 

“Besides, we’ll need a big strong man to help move the lovebirds to the townhouse.” Peggy says, sarcastically. She is witty as she is beautiful, which he is quickly discovering must run in the family. 

Then: “Peggy, you weren’t supposed to tell him!” says Eliza, as angrily as John has ever heard. Alexander signs,  _ What house?  _

“I wanted it to be a surprise, but my mother is offering us the house in the city, it's small, but we don’t need much space and it would be ours.” Eliza says, rushing over words that sound rehearsed. Alexander looks stunned, then he signs,  _ Thank you. _

Angelica says, “You two should go down and look at it.” She says it with a smirk.

 

And language barrier, baby, and all, just the two of them go down. With the promise they’ll be back for dinner in, John checks his watch, seven hours. 

 

He manages to get settled in a guest room, not that he has much. He gets in a quick nap, as he slept poorly, quickly freshens up. He is quite happy with the arrangement. He ignores how weird it is to not have Alexander by his side. He is used to talking more, occupying half the night in monologue, too dark to see Alexander but instead pressed on by Alex poking him, using the old system of once for yes and twice for no. It wasn’t as if he was talking to himself, but he had grown used to the sound of his own voice. He missed Alexanders. He missed the simplicity of it, from before it had all happened. 

(Elsewhere, Alexander and Eliza admire the house. It's perfect, except Eliza doesn’t know how they will fill it, even with children on the way. Her future is right there, and she is excited, but for a moment, she is very scared, unsure of it all. It is a lot. The sentiments are reflected in Alexander, who can only think how he wants the guest room next to the master bedroom to be John’s.) 

He occupies the afternoon with chess with Angelica and Peggy. He wins only once, and he imagines it was Angelica letting him. They are excellent conversationalists, but after the fact he cannot remember a single line spoken. 

Dinner is a loud affair, Eliza gushing, Alexander enthusiastically signing and having to be asked to slow down by Angelica and Eliza. Peggy gives him an amused look at that. He drinks a bit too much, perhaps. The wine is good and abundant, they eat multiple courses. All three Schuyler's look very pointedly away from Alexander every time he picks up his fork. It irks John, and it stings somewhere in Alex. 

But it passes.

 

That night, John lies alone in bed. He is not jealous of Eliza and Alexander, he is glad they can fall back together so quickly, so carefully, with a baby on the way to adore. He isn’t jealous Eliza can sign  _ I love you _ , in front of whoever she wants. He doesn’t care that they can touch to tenderly and get soft smiles in return. That love is not for him, he can’t imagine. Across the hall, he is grateful there is no giggling coming from their room. He might actually cry if there was. But yet, he wants to really understand Eliza. She knows Alexander, she loves Alexander, and he wants to understand her. 

Eliza lies beside her husband. Her first darling child is sitting on her bladder, and she has no idea how today has been real. But the little awkward moments run rampant through her mind. She is unused to Alexander not talking, and she misses his voice. The conversations are slower, she lacks so many words. If she’s honest with herself, which she is now that Alexander seems to have fallen asleep, she’s jealous. She longs for John’s easy camaraderie, his near fluency in signs. She wants to know her husband the way John seems to, casually, though John would never harm the trust he has. She just wants things to be easy and light, and she doesn’t believe they will get there. This day has been joyous, but she does not like the revelations. She must try and spend more time with John, she wants to understand.

Alexander lies quiet. Eliza thinks he’s asleep. He wants John, not instead of, but in addition to. He longs for John’s fluency. But he knows the two would get along, they have similar dry wit, the bred manners and grace. They are both undeniably beautiful, and Alexander loves them more than life itself. He needs them. And more than that, he wants them to be friends. At least. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took so long because I couldn't get the pace I wanted, but anyways. Will I ever write John and Alexander awkwardly sharing a crappy bed?? Who knows! 
> 
> Anyways, my continued and everlasting thanks to you all, especially if you are leaving comments/kudos/subscribing. I read and re-read all my comments and they make me happier than you know!!


	9. born in the eye of the storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My continued and endless thanks to everyone reading this. I've never successfully written long chaptered stuff and it is because of y'all. 
> 
> The chapter comes from a line off the Hamilton Mixtape which is So Good!! It also matches the chapter perfectly.

A week after coming to Albany, things had evened out. He had adjusted to the routine of waking up to his radiant but very large wife, not making eye contact while eating, and staring at the two people he loved. Only when they weren't watching, he was basically the “b” in subtle. John had befriended Peggy, they played cards frequently while Angelica helped cheat. They didn't see each other as much, the distance created by the ornate mansion seemed too much. John was fastest at translating for Alexander at dinner, as Catherine and Phillip both lack fluency of their daughters. They had worked it out over the precious little time they had alone. 

The only easy way for Alexander to get time with Eliza was taking a carriage into town and looking at their future house. They wanted to move in once the child was born. They had a furniture and a young girl, Grace eager to start work and their housekeeper and cook. They discussed names. They decided on Phillip if it turned out to be a boy, to Angelica's chagrin, who wanted to name  _ her  _ future son Phillip. For a girl, they had easily agreed on Angelica. (The future namesake wasn't aware of it.)

Everything feels like it's falling into place, except him. When he's alone, or just with Eliza and John. They make him feel normal, and he's used to being kindly asked to repeat himself when he gets too excited and speaking too fast. They fall into normalcy, adjusting not easily, but as well as they can. Eliza is better at remembering that she has to talk to strangers, but John is better at translating, he gets the more meaning out of each sign and knows how Alexander wants things said. But he misses talking. It hurts sometimes, how much he wants it back.

Then, one morning, Alexander wakes up in a bed comfortable beyond belief. He isn't cold, he feels like he has sunk into a cloud, he turns over to tell John how good a pick for the inn is and then. He sees Eliza. Not that she isn't radiant in the morning, sleeping with warm light sneaking through curtains illuminating her face. But he remembers where he is. The look on her face suddenly seems troubled. 

The trouble is, it hits him again. He doesn't know why it's bothering him so much. He's survived so much, his island and this war. He's alive. He survived even though so many have died, and he should be happy. He should be relieved and celebrating. 

And he does, he is beyond happy about Eliza, about their child. But it hurts worth than death to know his child will grow up with a father who doesn't have a voice. What will that teach him? 

He can barely breathe he's so scared. 

Then Eliza opens her eyes. Her eyes stare right into his. “Good morning love,” says says smiling.

Lying on his side, he can't exactly sign  _ morning  _ back, but before think he can shift position, Eliza makes a soft noise. “Oh,” she says, faintly. Then her face scrunches up in pain. “Oh. Wow.” He can feel wetness. Her water has broken.

They've been practicing baby related signs recently, so she recognizes when he signs  _ You're in labour! _

“Yes, Alexander, go get Angelica. She can call for the doctor.” 

 

After that, he finds himself in a complicated, endless day that barely seems real. He holds her hand as she curses his name, which is fair. Her signing comprehension has gone out the window (possibly literally, Eliza threw a bun when a particularly awful contraction hit her mid lunch), but John isn't allowed in the room. So Alexander feels every inch of his muteness and comforts Eliza by stroking her hair and laying cool cloths handed to him by the nurse. The doctor is Ned Stevens, who Alexander hasn't seen in ages, but was good friends with once. (Such good friends it was rumoured they were brothers, but that's neither here nor there.) Alexander hasn't even written. Stevens would have let John in, but Phillip objected. Stevens also got one look at Alexander outside Eliza’s room and said, “You're back and didn't tell me? We're talking about this later.” Alexander shook his head, and when Ned looked angry, opened his mouth. “Oh Alexander,” Ned says. But then he has Alexander's child to deliver.

Eliza gets through. She holds her tiny Phillip, and she decides the past eight hours have been worth it. She wants more immediately. Well, not  _ immediately _ , but she loves this being she holds more than life itself. She'll keep him safe and sound. Alexander strokes his head and kisses hers. 

“Just you wait,” she says smiling. “You're going to be sick of this by the time I'm satisfied.”

He has the look on his face she associated with him rambling for hours but instead he just signs  _ I love you _ . Which conveys all she needs to know. She feels like she understands Johns translation process that much better.

It's good feeling. She falls asleep quickly after, ready for anything to come. 

Outside the room with the happy couple, John, after an exhausting day of running any errands asked of him, rests his back against the wall and promptly sits. He's lying in wait, he tells himself. Really, he was happy to do it. Over the short time spent, he's put down roots. He likes Peggy and Angelica, they are funny and clever and smell better than the funny clever people he is used to. (Lafayette, the previous funniest and most clever, is running off to France. He has more revolutions to win. John is worried they will never meet again. Such is their life.) Catherine is motherly but is undeniably the source of the clever tongues. Phillip’s charming. He's much nicer than the politicians John grew up eating with. He can laugh at the fact he's accidentally gone and made his father proud. Funny how it took him living through a war, for it to be worth it. 

He had no issue with getting anything Eliza or the doctor needs. It didn't occur to him to be anywhere else.

He sat there for a moment until the butler came by. “Sir,” said the man, and John couldn’t quite remember his name. “I have a letter for you.” He bends down after a moment to hand it to him, realizing John is done with standing.

“Thank you,” John says, still feeling awful he can’t remember the name, it's been too long of a day. The butler walks off, John is left alone in the hallway again. In his hands he holds a letter from Lafayette. 

_ My dearest Laurens,  _

_ I will be leaving for France in two weeks. I know it is sudden, but I am needed at home. There are tensions brewing and escalating, and I have a position that needs to be filled. I will write frequently, (and expect you to do the same) but it would keep me warm in the trying months ahead if we had a chance to properly say goodbye. I hear you and Alexander are in Albany, I am in the city, if you can try and make it down to have our goodbyes in person. _

_ Additionally, I want to hear about how you and Alexander are doing. I imagine things are more complex after coming home, despite how it feels it should be the opposite. Hercules is also enthusiastic about seeing you again. He has acquired Sam Adam’s in hope of your visit.   _

_ Yr Obt Srvt,  _

_ Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette _

 

John had never gotten over the other man’s name. He imagined it was on purpose. He obviously wanted to see Lafayette off. A moment alone with those he loves. And he could appreciate Lafayette’s sentiment about life getting more complicated, but was he hinting at what John thought he was? Or was he just paranoid. 

His musings were cut short by Alexander leaving Eliza’s room. For him, John stood. “How is she?” He asks. 

_ Good, she’s so happy and she wants another one already!  _ Alex signs in a very fluid, excited motions. 

“I’m so happy for you,” John says. 

_ Thank you _ , Alex signs.  _ I’m scared.  _ Then.  _ I want to be a good dad for P.  _ (Eliza and Alexander had agreed having the name-signs being just the first letter would make it easier for the kids as they learn to understand their father and relatives who weren’t fluent in signs.) 

“You are going to be such a good dad. I promise.” Alex just signs  _ Thank you _ again. John doesn’t have time to say anything else, as Alex is determined to change the subject.  _ Will you come down to New York with me next week?  _ John is surprised how well that worked out. 

“Yes, I was hoping you’d ask. I’m assuming you got Lafayette’s letter as well?” 

Alexander looks puzzled, he then signs,  _ No I got a letter from Burr.  _ (Burr’s name sign, hilariously, is just shivering.)  _ He wants to talk about a law firm. Somehow has been learning sign. _

“Wow,” says John, eloquently. But Alexander isn’t done,  _ What is going on with Lafayette?  _

“We’d be going down to say goodbye, sometime next week. Hercules wants us to stay with him. He’s got Sam Adam’s waiting.” Alexander smiles at the memory, but absently. Something else on his mind. 

_ Can you write to him? I’ll send Burr a confirmation.  _ So that's the end of it. 

“Yes of course. Then get some sleep. It's been some day.” And John sure didn’t become a father. Alexander nods, then turns around.  “Goodnight Alexander,” John says. Alexander keeps walking. 

John writes a short letter back, ready to be sent in the morning. He doesn’t think too hard about how soon he has to say goodbye to Lafayette. He doesn’t want be up all night consumed with it. 

Alexander re-writes the letter fourteen times.

Eliza wakes up to feed their child six times. Little Philip is wondrous but arduous. Alexander is not with her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I, like John can not get over Laf's full name. If I had a name like that I would 101% use it to intimidate strangers and make jokes with friends. 
> 
> Shit's gonna get real in New York if my attempts at foreshadowing aren't working for you. 
> 
> I just want to thank everyone again who is reading and leaving comments and kudos and bookmarking because I love you and it makes writing this so much better. Thank you!!


	10. the carriage where it happens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, this was supposed to be the New York chapter. But then sassy words where spoken, and honestly I like this more. If you desperately want these guys to solve their miscommunication issues, well...
> 
> I really enjoyed writing this one and I hope y'all enjoy reading it.

Eliza wanted to come. Both Alexander and John were caught off-guard. For some reason. She was insistent and quite sure she wanted to. Alexander brought up Philip, not as an argument but as a precaution. The three were sitting in the library, coffee in hand. 

“Phillip can stay here with his aunts and grandparents, who love him and are excellent at caring for him. Let me be part of this narrative, I haven't been to the city since before the war.” 

John clued in right away. Alexander did not. The last time Eliza had bid them goodbye, Alexander was captured. New York was filled with redcoats. A treaty wasn't going to be signed for another two years. John understood her desire. He felt it himself. 

“She's right Alexander. Albany is safe for Phillip but Eliza ought to be part of your adventures.” 

Alex conceded their point.  _ Two against one.  _ Eliza bumped fists with John, but with much more relief in her eyes. 

Once he might have felt jealous, but all John felt was relief, Eliza would help keep them all stable. 

Then Eliza leaned over and kissed Alexander. He softened just a touch, but he looked less angry and simply incredulous at being outmanoeuvred. It was just on the cheek, proper for company but sweet enough to serve as a cute thank you. But it was still more than John could do. So he was a little jealous. Not of her, but of her position. 

“Then it's settled. The three of us, together, on our way,” John declared. If t was awkward, he didn't care. He had a lot of packing to do. 

Eliza was half dreading the carriage ride. It was hours, to start with, and she had her husband and the man her husband loved to share it with. And she felt distant from her husband. She needed him and he didn't seem to need her. Not that she disliked John. He was sweet, had a more polished gentleman cover, but he was earnest. He had charmed her sisters, her family. Not like Alexander, who had brash exuberance on his side, but John had his own relaxed presence. Alexander had mentioned wit and easy camaraderie, and she had just seen glimpses when he was playing Peggy or when he thought no one was looking. 

She also knew he had once shot a man. The Charles Lee issue had been outlined to her by both Washingtons, and as far as Eliza was concerned, John's only fault was friendship and loyalty to her husband. She doubted John was adamant Lee needed to die, but she was sure John thought it was the best path for Alexander. 

Alexander closing his suitcase brought her out of her trance. Over his arm, he held his jacket, and in his hand, two letters, one very small and one in an envelope stuffed to the brim. He couldn't sign unless he put something down or could do it one handed, so she asked, “Are you ready to go?” 

They walked down hand in hand. 

The carriage ride, despite her worries, started well. The large envelope contained the next batch of signs from the Abbé, who had included included a good number of signs related to Alexander's career, lawyer, politician, just to name a few. They got some practice in, spending the first hour signing only. They went over their plan, they only were going to spent a few days. So they would maximize time spent with friends. (And Burr.) None of them wanted to leave Phillip for long. 

Then,  _ Wasn't what you were saying last time.  _ Alexander signed it with every intention with her seeing. 

(Had he had a few minutes to just focus on his actions, he would have quickly been horrified with his words. But he did not.)

“So I should just sit at home with a baby on my hip while my husband decides my future?” asked Eliza, every word bitting. Alexander was struck by the words. 

John tried to interject, but Alexander threw a hand in front of John’s mouth then signed  _ So you’ll abandon P because you’re jealous? _

John tried again, “I really don’t-” But Eliza cut him off, saying “John, I like you, but don’t think you have a place in this.” 

_ You are jealous of John because he knows me better. _ He _ always understands me.  _

“I’m sure he does, _biblically_ even. And how am I supposed to when you leave me behind at every turn!”

John finally got his words in. “Enough!” The married two stared at him, all words nearly abandoned. He took a breathe in. “You’re problems are all because of me. Alexander, you love Eliza, and Eliza, you love Alexander. You both have told me as much. I see I’m creating space, so when we get back, I’ll move out. You need to figure yourselves out. And Eliza, we never did anything like that. One kiss, but never more.” (He could feel his soul harden with every word. He already had found a little home for himself, but not at the cost to their happiness.)

“Oh John,” Eliza said. “You’re right, Alexander and I need to work somethings out.” She looked at her husband, who nodded. “I am jealous of you John, you have spent months with Alexander, you’re a better at signing. But I want a friendship with you, not to drive you away. I’m sorry for what I said.” 

John’s brain short circuited a bit, Eliza was jealous of  _ him? _ That was new. 

Alexander then signed,  _ I shouldn’t have said those things. I’m sorry too. Eliza, I’m sorry for kissing John. John, I’m sorry for putting you in the middle like that. I’m not adjusting as fast as I thought I would. I want to be working, and I don’t know how to make that happen. I didn’t want to get your hopes up before I talked to Aaron. _

“It's okay, both of you. Really, I don’t know what to say,” John said, after finding his voice. 

“Say you’ll stay,” was Eliza’s response. Alexander signed,  _ we need you.  _

“As what, a friend?” John asked. Not that he would mind, he would keep both their eyes in his life. But he wanted. He wanted more. 

“John, do you mind if Alexander and I  have a very quick chat?” (Eliza figured he wouldn’t, not with that look in his eyes.) 

He gave a gesture, said, “Go ahead.” He was largely unsure of his place. 

Eliza turned her back to him, and signed to Alexander, slower than John might have, but that was neither here nor there,  _ We can love more than one person, can’t we? _

He responded,  _ Of course we can.  _

She asked,  _ You love both of us, right? _

He looked hurt almost.  _ You two are the air in my lungs.  _ She thought the signs looked more beautiful than the printed words. She smiled. It was more than enough. 

_ I love you.  _ She signed.  _ If you love him, then he is important to me too.  _ He smiled.  _ It's important we are equals, if we are going to do this. We aren’t going to have another day like this. _

_ Yes,  _ her husband signed. 

_ Yes,  _ she signed back. 

“Okay John, we’ve made a decision.” She spoke aloud. John looked back at them. As she wasn’t the only one with a dramatic flair, she said, “We aren’t going to have another day like this.” It would help Alexander cement the sentiment. “Because that isn't what you do to people you love.” John looked a little faint. “Alexander loves you, which means at the very least I would like to be you friend. You don't have to go anywhere, honestly, it wouldn't be odd for my husbands translator and good friend to live with us, especially if we made him Phillips godfather.” John's mouth had nearly hit the ground. Alexander looked at her with adoration. “The world is going to perceive each of us as lesser, you without a marriage, Alexander's disability, my existence as a woman. But under our roof we would be equals. If that's what you want.” She said, suddenly a touch worried with his silence. 

If that wasn't enough for Johns poor brain to process, Alexander signed  _ I love you _ but then flipped his fingers to make the number two. Clever, and accurate, thought Eliza. 

John said, “I would like that a lot. More than you know.”

“I might have an inkling. I fell for him too. Makes you a bit helpless.” She smiled at him, and realized how very cute he was. 

“Yeah,” said John. Then he mimicked Alexander's new sign. She followed suite. 

She thought about abandoning the discussions for more concrete actions, but the carriage came to a sudden halt. She heard the chauffeur yell, “Cursed New York drivers!” Which meant they had reached the city. Well then. Time to face the outside world. She vaguely wished for an easier trial.   
She admired her men. “Gentlemen, I believe we have arrived.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyways, puns are still my favourite literally devices, this story is still my favourite form of procrastination (rip my math grade), and I still cry tears of joy when I get comments so please??? Thank you for reading this honestly. 
> 
> Also, I'm on tumblr as coffeecrowns too! I would love for you to come say hi!


	11. in new york...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates are going to suck until I go on winter break because as a student, December means all my teachers want to kill me! 
> 
> Anyways, I've had away too much fun with this one.

Hercules and Lafayette are sitting at Hercules desk. More accurately, Hercules is sitting, stitching a button on a long piece of green fabric. Perhaps a jacket, John isn’t overly sure. Lafayette is babbling on, but he is sitting on top of the desk, legs draped over, crossed, kinked hair loose. He’s passionate about whatever he’s talking about, accent much more defined, he also had his back to the door, trusting Hercules to watch his back, and couldn’t hear the soft approach over his own voice. (Usually a downfall in royal circles.) 

The three approached (the sign outside had read closed but the door was unlocked, so they walked in.) Eliza ahead, as John and Alexander hadn’t quite gotten over her declarations of the carriage. John pushed his shock away. Alexander pushed away other thoughts. Hercules saw them and sat up straight. Laf turned around, eyes lit up, “Mon Amis!” then after a beat, “Lady Hamilton!”  “No need for such formality, Marquis,” was Eliza’s response, but she  _ curtsied _ nonetheless.  Alexander and Hercules were both surprised to see how fast they fell into the upper class etiquette, John, less so.

“I am Gilbert to my friends, Lady Hamilton, or Lafayette if you prefer,” Laf replied, kindly. Eliza smiled. 

“I am Eliza to mine,” she responded.

“Glad we got that settled,” interjected John. He didn’t want to cut off Eliza or Laf, they seemed to be having a little bit of fun, but Alexander looks uncomfortable. “What does a man have to do to get a Sam Adams around here?”

“Come give me a hug,” Lafayette responded, all trace of formality gone. John moves past Eliza, and fits himself snugly into Lafs chest. He's significantly shorter than the Frenchmen, but that doesn't make a difference to him. It was nice to take a minute to be buried on someone's chest. He doesn't want to have to say goodbye in two days.

Hercules has risen sometime during it all, John doesn't exactly have visibility. 

Hercules says, “It's nice to see you in person, instead of your handwriting, though your's is better than your husbands.”

(No one mentions how in all her glory, Eliza has abdominal spelling.)

_ Nice to see flower boy again  _ quips Alexander, cheeky grin on his face. John laughs, and Lafayette poses the question, “is that Hercules name sign?” Alexander's face lights up,  _ it is now!  _

Hercules, only able to understand fingerspelling looks aghast. He groans, “it's just like y'all with French all over again.” 

That gets a few laughs. Then Hercules taking “in loco parentis” seriously, escorts them upstairs to his apartment, says, “So how long do we have you?” 

Johns gut reaction is pretty simple, not long enough. But Alexander signs  _ I'm meeting Burr tomorrow for lunch.  _ John translates mostly for Hercules, but in case Lafayette hasn't been practicing. Hercules grins, “I had figured Burr was involved.” Then, playing a good host, asks if anyone wants a drink. (Eliza surprises them all by seeming to enjoy the Sam Adams. “My wife does keep wine in the house,” Hercules had offered. “Then we can drink it with dinner tonight, once I’ve actually met her,” was Eliza’s response.) They ignore the elephant in the room, Lafayette leaving and Alexander’s disability. John and Eliza acted as translator for Alexander. Sometimes they would start at the same time, both stopping not wanting to be rude. After the second time it happened, she started laughing. Alexander was rolling his eyes. Eliza said, “We are far too polite to each other, John.”

Lafayette raised his glass to that. Alexander signed,  _ I love you two but please stop this. _

“Alex, do you care who translates?” asked John. Alexander signed  _ no  _ with a flourish. “Then Eliza, you can translate for now, I’ll translate over dinner,” with a slight gleam in his eye, he teased, “You might benefit from the practice.” Hercules looked as if he was watching only the fourth act of a Shakespeare drama, intrigued and amused, yet confused. Lafayette’s eyes widened, just a fraction, with the possibilities of John's actions. Eliza  _ snorted  _ her laughter. 

With a mocking tone she quipped back, “You’re right, I wouldn’t want to embarrass myself infront of Mrs. Mulligan.”

Then they regained a more stable rhythm of conversation. They told the handful of funny stories for the war, the Baron von Steuben's antics, Burr’s best one liners and subtle put downs, particular dullards in Congress Hamilton had flayed with his pen. The mood grew more and more somber, so the stories switched when Hercules started describing more obtuse customers. Eliza could contribute amusing things she had seen, or Peggy had done the first time out in the city. Alexander had a funny story about a pig, a butcher and a complete works of Shakespeare, back when he was a clerk in Nevis.  Eliza translated marvelously, a testament both to her skill in translated growing leaps and bounds and her place in the group.

Eventually, after a couple more beers for everyone but Eliza and John (Eliza politely declining, John remembering the last time he was drunk in Eliza’s presence, and shaking his head violently.), a noticeably pregnant woman came up the stairs. 

“Welcome back, darling,” Hercules said, standing and going over to greet his wife, who kissed him soundly on the mouth. He blushed, a bit. “Good Evening honey, honey’s friends,” she said, warmly. Hercules, having regained his balance, said, “Is that the kiss of a woman who’s kept her winning Bridge streak?” She teased back, “You’re damn right it is.” 

“I can’t believe you haven’t had a chance to met these guys,” Hercules said, walking with his wife back to the group. (It was odd, Lafayette had remarked a few days earlier when he had come to stay with the Mulligans until returning home, how none of them had met Hercules’s wife.)

“It is odd how our paths haven’t crossed,” she responded. “Elizabeth Mulligan, Hercules has told me so much.” She reached out to shake hands with Alexander, (who Hercules must have given them the rundown of Alexander’s muteness.) then John (who explained he would be translating for Alexander), then finally, Eliza. “Elizabeth Hamilton,” said Eliza on her turn. “Oh joy,” said the other woman sarcastically, “I hate it when this happens.” 

“I go by Eliza, to avoid the problem myself,” she joked. 

“I love the way you think,” Elizabeth replied, earnestly. “Do you mind if we go to a pub? I love meeting with ladies for coffee and bridge, but I’ve reached by limit for pomp and formalities.” The three men looked over at Lafayette, briefly wondering how he’d do upon his return to court. 

“I know exactly what you mean, and would love to,” was Eliza’s response. 

The dinner passed nicely. The conversation and alcohol flowed, but only enough to get them all buzzed. Hercules would occasionally take to quiet vigil, after momentary lapses of remembering the city was vacated of British. Elizabeth, unused to Alexander’s mode of speech, tried to start a conversation with him while Eliza was busy talking to Laf and John was in the bathroom. John kept staring at Alexander and Eliza noticed. She flashed him a smile, and though he flushed, he smiled back. She also spent a good amount of time noticing John, not always in relationship to Alexander. Alexander, though not showing it, grew more frustrated with not being able to speak. Lafayette just tried to ease the night along while memorizing every detail of his friends. 

 

Alexander and Eliza shared a room and a bed. He expressed worry about his meeting with Burr. He wasn't scared of Burr, he insisted, just unsure of what he was getting into. He wanted to go alone. She wasn’t thrilled about it, but he wanted to stand on his own feet. (It was for his own peace of mind, to know he was convincing to others still.) Eliza comforted him, and eventually he fell asleep, curled up as the little spoon. She wished, internally for John’s assistance. It was easier to face Alex’s insecurities armed with love, and John had it in spades. 

John shared a room (but not a bed), with Lafayette. The Mulligan’s (domestic and adorable), had small guest rooms. They talked well into the night, just about meaningless things. John kept coming back to the Hamiltons, his mind always coming back to them. Then Lafayette (looking for a distraction from his own issues) said, “You do know they love you, right?” 

“What?” was John’s eloquent response. 

“Oui, and you love them in return.” Lafayette said. “You three look at each other when you don’t think the other is watching. But around friends, you don’t think about anyone else noticing. Its very cute.” He assured at Johns look of dismay. “Don’t fret.”

“We’ve reached an basic understanding,” John said carefully. “It would be easier if Eliza was easy to hate. It was easier once.” Lafayette nodded, but said nothing. John continued after a beat. “But as complicated as it all is, I enjoy Eliza’s company and I am, I am so happy she is in my life.” 

“My dear friend,” Laf started, “You have been given an opportunity. You should be care to, how is it you say it, to not throw away your shot.” He said it with a straight face. 

“You ass,” John said, but smiled. Laf was right, as usual, and he felt lighter with the confirmation of his hopes. “I should have never taught you English.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to everyone reading this! All your kindness keeping me going. Burr is in the next one and this should be fun! 
> 
> Also, you really shouldn’t drink coffee or alcohol when pregnant, but this is the 1700’s, depicted by fanfic. You know what they were doing in the 18th century? Fucking bloodletting. 
> 
> The abundance of Elizabeth's just adds to my hatred of the 1700's, despite how badass they are. You can guess how annoyingly common my birth name is! (Super common!)


	12. burr

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> School tried to kill me, but I live and reign victorious!! (I slept for like 18 hours then wrote this) Happy winter solstice holidays to you all! Longish update to celebrate!! You all have been so so so so nice and thank you so much!! 
> 
> I also finally get to write one of the two original relationships tagged on this, Ham and Burr. The story is really gonna get moving from here on in, because I have had like two weeks to think about everything I want to happen and it is A Lot. Get pumped!

In his letter, Burr had offered to meet him either alone or with trustworthy friends. He said he wouldn’t mind reading responses if Alexander didn’t mind writing them. (Burr had of course been practicing the sign language since copying the signs out as an aide. But there was no way to phrase it in a way that was both concise and not seem invasive.) In his conversation to John and Eliza, Alexander had explained how he wanted to test out independance. That convinced Eliza. It would be incredibly safe to practice with Burr, a man whose philosophy was “talk less.” That convinced John.

He walks over alone, it gives him a moment with his thoughts. Not that he particularly wanted it. He didn’t know what Burr had in store for him.

Burr poured him coffee, good quality stuff with milk available. He immediately provided Alexander with the desk,  His office was small, bordering cramped with the two men in it. But Alexander liked the space, brick and pale plaster. There was ample space for documents, shelves full of books on law, Alexander was familiar with them. He remembered curling up with his copies, most now stashed with Hercules, falling asleep on them at late hours, scribbling down everything he needed to know. He missed the knowledge, the rush of knowing how to solve and work with what was written in those books.

“I want to start a firm,” Burr says by means of explanation. “I’ve done the math, I can’t support either of my Theodosia’s if I also have to cover the whole office space. You’re going to need a voice in court, but we can work it out.”

Alexander stares at him for a moment, as if all the moving parts to his brain had froze, then something must have clicked. Aaron wish he knew what was happening in his brain. Then Alexander picked up the pen, and wrote:

 _We don’t exactly have the same style of arguing. I’m going to be a lawyer, not just letting you have the glory._ (Burr thinks to himself upon reading _that_ “because that's works so well for you.”) _I’ll have to use someone as a voice. I’m sure we could make it work._

Burr can suddenly see the precedent they could set. Devising a system of translators for court, well, that makes sense for every angle, regardless of opinions of freedom and rights (words that sound hypocritical to him with all their discourse), its practical. He can get behind this plan, regardless of Alexander's sweeping words. This is an olive branch, a cause to work together for. Economically, it's less beneficial in the short term. But little Theo won’t need schooling for at least five years. He feels almost giddy, getting to make a small, useful, undeniable mark. Then he schools his face back into a bland smile.

“We will make it work. Until we win that fight, I’ll help you argue your cases.”

This time its Alexander who smiles. For him, this is a foot in the door. He has so many things he wants to do and conquer. He starts writing an itemized list, probably of what will become future disagreements. He can’t wait.

“Alexander,” says Burr, a little more gentle than his normal personal would allow. “I’m glad you're able to be part of this.” he isn’t shocked that he means it, not at this point. He is shocked that Alexander wormed his way into Burr’s heart at all. His tenacity is endearing. His stubbornness is baffling but oddly impressive. Burr likes him. Burr is glad that he gets to sit across from the man in what will soon be their office.

Then: Alexander signs _thank you,_ an easy movement, one handed. Without thinking (for once), Burr signs _You’re welcome._ He realizes his actions right as ALexander’s brow contracts and his eyes narrow. Burr doesn’t know the signs that follow, but he is used to the look of his face that means “what the fuck?” A sentiment his own brain is screaming at him.

“I don’t know _those_ signs,” Burr says weakly. In a surprisingly unsurprising suite of events, Alexander writes out _What the fuck?!_

“Washington asked me to make a copy of the signs you had. I figured I wasn’t done with you yet.”

Alexander crooks his head, then quickly writes out, _Prodigy of Princeton College, that's for sure._ He switches to signing. _This will work will._

Burr blinks twice. That wasn’t the expectation he had. Alexander, for his part, feels old dreams of working as a lawyer in his brand new country and all waking and shouting. He’s thrilled with their presence, the idea of having things to do, goals to pursue makes him feel alive. Burr can understand him, an added bonus that he wouldn’t have dreamed of. They talk late into the night, friendly arguments slowed down by one side refusing to engage half the statements, less he encourage Alexander, the other having to write out or fingerspell unfamiliar words.

Burr brings out some whiskey, celebratory and all that (he’s actually just playing a good host, but Alexander feels so damn celebratory it's infectious), and Alexander can tell how much it burns going down that he’s lucky he doesn’t have to taste the stuff. Burr enforces a “You can’t fingerspell out four syllable words Alexander please write them down!” rule after mixing up some embarrassing latin terms. They get into a mock argument about the order of names. Aaron thinks it's practical to go alphabetically with names. Alexander disagrees vehemently for the obvious reasons.

(Aaron is shocked at how fun it all is. Alexander is shocked at how nice Aarons laugh is. Neither know exactly when the switch from last names to first names is, just that it was that night sometime after the whiskey being offered.)

 

In the Mulligan apartment, it is much more quiet. Lafayette is out, spending a (final) few hours with Washington. (Unknown to anyone but the other, they cling to each other for the larger part of an hour, sitting on the same couch. There’s a small spattering of tears, which are ignored. The sun is bright overhead. There is quiet, for a very small, private infinity. But the Earth still spins, and neither can provide the reason for Lafayette not to go.)

Meanwhile, the Mulligans are working. Tailors work hard, even though they enjoy their work immensely. Eliza remembers she’s in need of some new dresses, and vows to get them made soon.

It’s nice to have quiet for a little while. They both love little Phillip to pieces but the peace is glorious. They are well suited to each other's company. Eliza sits prettily among her nest of a dress, John sits right on the edge of the large armchair.

“Isn’t it odd how we were both raised to be so poised, yet our most precious is Alexander?” Eliza asks, demurely, putting down her book. John puts the bookmark in his own, not that it was keeping his attention well.

John gives a laugh that borders genuine but still is polite. 

“I imagine we have more in common than we think,” John says. “We both come from large families. And fathers who are senators.”

“I’ve never heard you talk about your family, for all you’ve spent with mine,” says Eliza, curious.

“Well, I have all younger siblings. But my two sisters are younger.” He says, starting softly.

This leads to the discussion of one of the two things that changed his life, his mother's death. (The other was joining Washington.) He talks about Europe, studying abroad with no interest in law. He talks about talking to Alexander. How it was understood that grief was waves of agony interspersed with moments of memory lapse. They found understanding in each other. And common ground and interests and it spirals from there. Eliza nods along in complete understanding. Eliza calls him a poet in his own right. She tells him that she’s glad Alexander has him. She uses the present tense.

They are alone, and he puts it out there and he asks about what it's like to walk down the street holding Alexander's hand.

“It's like declaring to the world your satisfaction at a fundamental level.” He looks so fallen at this, so she continous with:  “I know we haven’t discussed it as much as we should, but you are precious to me, as well. If you like, you can hold my hand.” His mouth drops a touch. “I could use some air.”

They walk hand in hand. John’s never particularly had interest in women, but he hadn’t had any in men before Alexander either. Eliza had snuck up on him, and he should have seen it coming, but he feels proud and happy to hold her hand. Its wonderful.

“Thank you,” she says. “For protecting him when I couldn’t” He blushes at this.

“I should be saying that to you,” he says. They work well together.

Alexander comes back for dinner elated. His excited and frantic signs make translating more exhausting than usual for everyone involved. Eliza switches as translator halfway through. Alexander is too happy to diminish. He is in full creating mode, dreaming up ideas and arguments. It's fun (though exhausting) to watch. Both John and Eliza have to poke him and remind him to “eat, you ridiculous man.” It's fun to watch.

 

Lafayette isn’t good with goodbyes. He spends every moment with his friends, the group has expanded, but it's his family. He doesn’t want to say goodbye, for a traitorous moment he thinks about staying. But he has a wife and an estate and what will no doubt be a revolution, messier without Washington to lead it.  He misses France. But he’s built a home here too. He will be back, but they will continue on without him. It will never be the same.

They drink. Arguably more than they should. The ladies have seconds on their port, which is unusually and Laf basks in it, in the slight rebellion. (That's just the sort of person he is). He holds his alcohol better, focuses more, and remembers the way Alexander and Eliza and John dance around each other. But the looks exchanged and swapped are fond, full of love in any cross. He keeps them in mind later, while worried about the three. Hercules looks at Elizabeth like she is precious, which she is. She looks at him like she hasn’t worked beside him all day.

In the morning, he stands outside watching the sunrise, on the front porch in his pajamas. This is his. John comes out, must have heard him leave the bed. John just puts a hand on the frenchman's shoulder. It's almost quiet, like the city is only barely asleep. Its beautiful.

“Americans,” he says, trying for sarcasm and getting the watery weight behind all his work behind the words instead.

“I’ll write so often you’ll be sick of us,” John offers.

“Thought that was Alexander’s job.” Is Lafayette's quip. Not that it comes out particularly sharp. Not that John’s hungover brain could handle a full barb.

“He does better when he’s sharing.” John says it boringly and plainly, making it blend with the conversation. He doesn’t make it sound like any sort of innuendo.

(There is no doubt in Laf’s mind what is meant. He doesn’t think about it too critically, and instead takes comfort that they all find love.)

“I am happy there’s more of us.”

(He hopes John knows that he is saying he approves.)

Breakfast, by comparison, is simpler, quieter, as all his friends are hungover. He hugs all of them twice before boarding the ship. He climbs to the deck, and stares and stares and only maybe sees them. He waits until there's no a single speck his imagine can tell him that is America. Then he goes to his cabin and lies very still. He thinks about how he can’t wait to see Adrienne again.

The carriage ride back to Albany is long, and bumpier than Alexander expects. He writes and he writes and he writes, ideas he has, flaws and loopholes he remembers. Shows off possible layouts for the office. He just can’t wait, he wants to do it all. He remembers to look up at Eliza and John, to share the occasional thought or particular point of interest. They fall into a little rhythm.

John makes point to spend more time with Phillip once they get back to Albany. He also randomly gets questions about decore in the new Hamilton house. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cried like three different points writing this. Fun fact, historically, Laf never saw George again. Or Alexander. and John was already dead. Yikes. 
> 
> On a happier note, though this time period doesn't have the vocabulary to establish it in text, my John is written as demi/bi. I think it fits this weird combo of musical plus historical details when it suits me! Thank you again for reading this honestly!


	13. helpless!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all are just so nice! Thank you for your support/interest/etc in this and I Love You!
> 
> I was planning this chapter, and I was like, "okay, I'm got slow burn hell and developing feelings and pain, but what is this missing?" And I told myself: "Ah yes, shenanigans". Enjoy gentle reader. Because I sure did.

John’s convinced they are actively trying to kill him. Eliza has taken initiative. She is suddenly more physical. Alexander follows her lead. The touch him constantly, friendly, quick brushes, light kisses on his cheek when they hand Phillip over.  _ It's just a hands free method of communication,  _ Alex explains, teasing. 

The three are living together, in the new house. Alexander spends time with Burr in the city for a week or two, then spends longer weekends back with them in Albany. The setup isn’t ideal, but they haven’t quite decided if New York is going to be for them. Alexander is getting clients in Albany, he has them at the dining room table with Eliza or John translating, but it's nothing compared to what his and Burr’s office gets. John doesn’t really care where he lives, because with Alex and Eliza, there’s a good chance he’ll die. 

It starts when the three walk together. Alexander wants to sign, and he wants to be able to hold Eliza’s hand. These don’t exactly line up. Eliza just grabs John’s hand in response, just like back in the city. Alexander signs,  _ is this okay?  _ Without a real indication who he’s asking. When Alexander wears himself down, he holds Eliza’s hand, and kisses cheeks. Its adorable. 

Then the kisses start. John reciprocates the cheek kisses (once they stop caughting him off guard) which earns him smiles and raises the contact exponentially. Then, one morning, he comes down before Eliza wakes up, sees Alexander struggling to warm milk, make coffee, and hold Phillip. He's been busy, John spies a pot of porridge which will soon be his breakfast. (The three are are their own until the young girl they've hired comes by mid morning) John considers himself a gentleman, takes the (adorable) baby from Alexander, who suddenly has much more success pouring coffee. Alex pours a second cup for John, so naturally, John says “thanks,” but makes no move to grab the mug, still with his hands full of Philip and the warm bottle. Alexander leans in a kisses him full on the mouth. By the time John realizes what is happening, Alex is already leaning back, a smug look on his face. Taking in John's wide eyes, the other man puts down the two coffee mugs and signs,  _ can’t exactly thank you will my hands full. _

Alexander then takes Phillip back, holding him with one hand against his shoulder, letting him push John’s coffee closer. John grabs it, tries to process it all. He liked it. He likes Alexander liking it. Eliza- “Is Eliza aware of your new way of conveying thanks?”

From the stairs: “Is Eliza aware of what?”

“Alexander’s new strategy for expressing gratitude?” John calls to Alexander’s wife. A weird thought, but hey, John likes Eliza independently of whoever her husband is. Actually, he wouldn’t mind if this method of ‘conveying thanks’ became a house-wide system.

“Are you kidding, John?” Well there goes that plan. “It was basically my idea.” 

Alexander, now with one hand miraculously free, signs what is probably _not true!_ So they're in it together. Wonderful. Eliza elects to ignore them both, stirs the porridge.

John finds his voice, incredulously asks “Is this specifically an Alexander thing?”

Eliza, very coy, says, “I imagine we could all use some gratitude in our lives.” She must deem the porridge not quite ready, she takes a chair right next to him.

John smiles at her, she smiles back, and just to make sure this is really unfolding how he thinks it is, “I ought to express my thanks.” 

She looks down says, “You ought.”

He leans in and closes the distance between their mouths. It's chaste, all things considered. John just has only kissed one other person. Her lips are a bit champed, and both are just a touch nervous. They pull back at the same moment. 

John looks to Alexander, who interestingly, is the most red out of the three of them. He looks to Eliza, who looks quite pleased. “You’re okay with this?” she asks. He nods. 

Then she grabs the baby off John then stands to check the porridge, which much be ready and she dishes out three bowls, gets Alexander to bring them to the table and grab spoons. John thinks about getting up to try and help but doesn’t actually manage it. Eliza has knocked the breath out of him. He’s helpless. 

 

The days continue like that. Then Alexander gets called back down to the city for a trial, and to interview some possible translators. They stand just inside their front door. He kisses John hard, and John, half expecting it this time, manages to kiss back. Alexander makes a noise that is both very happy and a tad surprised. Then he does something very clever involving his teeth, suction, and John’s bottom lip. Good Lord. 

Alexander puts his bag down to sign  _ That was fun. Eliza, take care of John.  _ (He signs this while raising his eyebrows.)  _ John, take care of Eliza.  _

“You take care of yourself,” says John. 

“Get some sleep,” says Eliza.

“Eat when Burr eats,” says John. 

Alex rolls his eyes, but signs  _ yes yes. I will.  _ Then he make their unique little  _ I love you _ . It's more discreet if anyone was watching. Then Alexander is off in the carriage. 

 

He had fallen hard and fast for Alexander. The pressure of the war, the weight on their shoulders, the desperation turned more and more. The knowledge that each moment might be their last has had an impact. But now that he can look Alexander in the eyes and tell him that he’s safe, well, that’s better. He never imagined himself with the domesticity. He’s glad for it. Each quiet morning together with enough to eat, each moment spent being able to sit down comfortably and help edit Alexander’s pages of writing, no longer begging for assistance, it's beyond his wildest dreams. 

He develops a similar relationship with Eliza. Neither particularly enjoy books on law, but by reading a few of Alexander’s volumes on economics with the most ridiculous voices they can proves entertaining, and useful to try and understand Alexander’s most recent interest. In the interest of fairness, she teaches him to bake bread. “Its nice to have something to physical to create. Tastes good too.” He surprises himself by enjoying it. Eliza Hamilton, the complex, wonderful woman is an excellent teacher. (“That’s what I enjoy most of all, teaching, though bread is wonderful”) It is especially motivating when he receives kisses for his efforts. 

“What do you want to do?” she asks him one day. She’s braiding his hair, which might mean he should be prepared to help in the chicken, or that she has no more interest in leaving the house. Or she’s bored. 

“I’d like to help end slavery. I tried to do something, back in the war. Lead and all black battalion and have all those men freed. But it didn’t work out.” 

“I want to as well,” Eliza said. “It hypocritical for a fight for freedom keep all the same practices.” 

John, having heard Angelica’s decimation of Thomas Paine, isn’t all that surprised by the sentiment. “We should put together a manumission society,” he hears himself say. 

“I imagine Hercules would have names of those interested,” she muses.

“We ought to send a letter.” 

They draft out a letter together, and send it away. 

 

Later, Eliza is working on some embroidery, except instead of a classic floral design it consists of ladies of Shakespeare's best retorts. (A gift for Angelica). John is holding Phillip, bouncing the boy on his knee.

“When I asked what you were interested in, I meant more specifically what you enjoyed to do,” she says. 

“I, well, when I was younger I liked life sciences. Animals. Medicine. You know,” he trails off after that. He felt stupider the longer he talked. 

“Really?” she asks, enraptured. 

“All I wanted to do.” John affirms.”  Well until fighting for freedom came along. But you don’t grow old doing that.” She has the decency to laugh at that. 

Then more seriously, she says, “Would you like to do it again?” All pretence of reading fades away as he just turns to look at her.

“How?” He asks. 

“Ned Stevens is a doctor and good friends with Alexander. Good reputation, rather brilliant.” 

 

John had differently heard the name but didn’t really put it all together. Not wanting to get his hopes up, he says, “I guess it might be worth sending another letter.” He kisses her this time, just expressing thanks. 

(If it feels like deja vu, to be bonding with each Hamilton in turn by letter writing, well, that's just the life he lives.) 

 

Alexander comes back a week later. He greets them with a kiss each, reaching out to hold his son, and is content to hold him for a few minutes. Once he gets some food into him, Alex starts enthusiastically signing about cases him and Burr are working on. Burr apparently writes nearly as much he does, except Burr hides it all away. He also goes on about a possible translator, brilliant young lady named Abigail. Abigail has the brain of a lawyer, complete with the argument that having a woman as a translatory means she’d be overlooked, exactly the role a translator should fill. She also wants to learn sign language because she wants to teach it to a newly deaf little sister. Alexander wants to hire her immediately. Burr told him to think it over. 

Eliza and John talk about their time while he was away. Alexander picks up Philip again, limiting him to very basic one handed signs. John brings up the letters they’ve sent. Alexander finds the whole thing fascinating and is thrilled by a manumission society.

The manage to all get to sleep early, Alexander exhausted by travel. John goes to sleep in the guest room. It's quiet for a few hours. 

Alexander is woken by crying. Philip crying, to be precise. Eliza is tossing, agitated by the noise but not clearly aware. (Sometimes, since he’s alone in his head, he uses the biggest most precise words. Too early now, but thats starts the train of thought how signing cannot yet convey the beauty of the most incredulous words he knows. He misses  _ pontificate. _ ) He kisses her forehead, and she settles. He’s struck by the thought of how lucky he is.

He goes to Philip. He rocks his son, changes him. Phillip wails. He goes downstairs, bouncing his son. He heats up some milk, but Phillip screams. He rocks his son, he tries to make soothing noises. That combination helps. He tries humming, which forever sounds off, but is slightly melodic. He knows that John will sometimes sing, Eliza often sings. That's what Phillip wants. 

And he can’t. He can’t even express apology. Phillip doesn’t yet know how much meaning his parents have packed into kisses. All his son can do is wail, and all Alexander can do it stand there. He feels useless. 

The tears prickle in his eyes. Phillip’s cries grow louder. Before he knows it, he’s just crying into his sons head. Phillip’s cries have turned to hiccups. His tiny little face is still contorted with distress. 

He can hear creaking on the stairs. Fuck. 

John appears. He asses the situation in a moment, then reaches Alexander is two long strides. He just wraps his arms around Alexander from the back. 

“You’re doing wonderfully. Kids are just assholes like that.” That shocks Alexander into laughing. John maneuvers such that allows him to pluck Phillip form Alexander’s arms. “Alexander, go back to bed.”

Right, he’s exhausted and useless. 

“I’ll be right behind you,” John promises. 

Alexander just nods and goes back up the stairs. John starts to sing, “Oh hush thee my dove-.”  Alex collapses on the bed once reaching his room, but doesn’t sleep. Eliza ready to be the ‘little spoon’ from her position on the bed. He’s so tired, but he doesn’t know how to close the distance.

A minute or two later, John comes in. He puts Phillip down, then tells Alexander to move over. So he does. John lies next to him. “You did all the hard work for me, thank you.” Then he kisses the back of Alexander’s head. 

Alexander can sleep with that method of looking at it rattling in his head. He sleeps, joining Eliza and with John not far behind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact, the first scene came to mind the day before writing this. The last scene was one of the earliest I had in mind for this fic. (22k later HOLY SHIT) 
> 
> Eliza's project of sassy lines from Shakespeare's ladies include lots of Lady Macbeth, basically every line spoken to Richard in Richard III and some fun stuff from Twelfth Night. If you have specific quotes you think belong on it, pls let me know bc I love shakespeare and I love sass. 
> 
> Anyways, I love you all and your kindness and thank you thank you for reading. That said, if you leave a comment I cry of happiness. That is all.


	14. (giddy) watching the sun rise over my new york city

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took so long and I am sorry. But to tide you over because school is killing me rn, I wrote a lil hamburr one shot that I'm quite proud of. Its called we keep meeting and if you like my style (too many parentheses and regret) and pain you will probably enjoy it. Sorry for shameless self promo. 
> 
> I hope y'all like both this at that. 
> 
> Title on this one comes from the deleted ten things one thing which is a fun song if you like suffering. (Guess what I'm doing!!)

A few months aren’t enough to ease anyone into Alexander’s schedule. Albany is a bad call. Which is a shame, considering how nice it would be to have the elder Schuyler’s assistance. Though Alexander is surprised and amazed that there’s yet another possible house for them to live in the city, he’s the first to admit the switching is draining. (The first by thirty seconds, once the words are spoken aloud, John says, “than god, we hate it to,” and Eliza says, “I don’t really even like this house.”)

The discussion morphs into all the reasons New York would suit them better, for one, they’ve all fallen in love with the city. Everything they want to do has potential there. Ned works there. Alexander works there. Women in general are more welcome to work there.

They sit in the living room. Alexander is reclining with Phillip in a sling that keeps his hands free. (John came up with it in a brief flash of brilliance.) He’s signing out a letter he needs to write to his new assistant, explaining their plans. Eliza is physically doing the writing. The three have finally figured themselves out, for a bit.

At a Sunday dinner with the rest of the Schuyler’s, between lively debates and surprisingly hilarious mistranslation errors, Eliza had carefully outlined why New York would serve them better. Somehow, it goes over okay. (Well, Peggy’s puppy dog eyes, Angelica’s sad but brave face, Phillip Schuyler’s epic tears of his princess growing up and leaving the nest are not part of an okay night, but under the circumstances. Angelica gets the embroidered pillow, and loves it immensely, which brightens things up.)

They settle in faster this time around. They don’t stumble as much. They kiss freely within their home, though with an eye on curtains, just in case. Now that Eliza and John can appreciate better the political centre New York has become, they act just a little more wary. John says to Eliza, “I don’t mind having to be more careful, especially to experience this with you two by my side.”

Eliza says, “I am so glad you are with us.”

The only part of settling in that goes poorly is setting up John’s room. Sue him. Its not like it doesn’t have a good reason. The three sleep on the floor of their new home the first night, Philip is the only one with a bed, though it’s a crib standing a short distance away. The stare up at the ceiling, holding hands. Eliza tells awful puns, John tells filthy jokes, and Alexander laughs unselfconscious of the slightly off sounding vibrations his lack of tongue causes. John falls asleep first, right in the middle. He feels two soft kisses to his head, someone running fingers through his hair.

In the morning, he wakes to Alexander’s morning wood nudging his thigh. Its not like its uncommon. The polite thing would be to ignore it. Though he continues to feign sleep, he can’t ignore it.

“Alexander,” Eliza whispers with surprising force, “Put that away!”

John can’t see what Alex signs back, but Eliza responds, much gentler, with “I do too. But we have some big conversations we have to have first.”

John can _feel_ Alexander’s sigh. He wishes it were an easy as falling into bed with them. But he wants more. But oh how he _wants_.

So he a hopefully convinces fake awakening. “Good morning,” he says groggily. He looks where Alexander is sitting, so he can see signing.

 _Morning_ signs Alex. He’s very cute braids to keep his hair from tangling all night. Its surprisingly intimate, just because no one else gets to see him like this.

“I like your braids,” John says.

“Thank you,” says Eliza while Alexander signs _Only for you._

And honestly, what’s he supposed to do with that?

John, after some help from Alexander, gets a meeting with Ned Stevens. They're going to meet in a pub. It's his first night in New York spent alone. There's a pit in his stomach but he's also beyond excited.

Ned does for a living what John used to dream of, before law, before the war. His first love and interest. He hopes it still fits.

Ned's a pretty unassuming guy. He bears enough of a physical resemblance to Alexander that the rumours they are siblings is understandable, but it's not uncanny. That's about where the similarities stop, which is good, because John couldn't handle another attraction.

Ned is more calm. Alexander has an undercurrent of rapid excited energy. Ned is clever, and he knows he's clever down to his bones. He carries no apparent need to prove it with every action, but there's a gleam behind his eyes that tell John he's doing brilliant things. John likes the man immediately.

They each buy a drink, and John downs nearly half in one swallow. “Parenting is a lot.” Then after a second, he says, “God parenting.”

“Of course,” Ned says, keeping that smile on his face. Okay, so maybe there is some other resemblance to Alexander. “You seem like a man in need of some work.”

John just nods, lest he say something else incriminating. Ned thinks on the subject for a minute. “I’m in need of an assistant in some cases that my regular students aren’t capable of handling. I’m the current President of Royal Medical Society, which means I’m low on helping hands from locals who are done with anything royal, even if Benjamin Franklin is a member too. Have you had any medical training?”

“Not really,” says John, feeling suddenly out of his depth. “Like I know anatomy and I can handle some basics, but nothing like you would do.”

“Good,” says Ned, dealing with any weirdness John felt.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Good, more than half my colleagues are idiots. Bloodletting is ridiculous.” He lowers his voice, comically, as if talking about a top secret plan instead on medical practices, “It either doesn’t do anything or is malicious, but no one will admit that if we don’t have anything to put in its place.”

John blinks a couple of times. “I believe you, but what exactly do you want me to do?”

Ned looks at him. “Alexander let it slip that you’re quite the abolitionist. I can’t help you there, not with freeing of slaves, but once they are free, and there’s a decent number now, they don’t have the access to medicine they would have, or other slaves they can rely on, so that's where you and I come in.”

“I’d be, like what, a nurse then?” asks John. “I don’t have any experience.”

“I know you can keep calm under pressure, you helped take care of Alexander, so you have some experience-”

“That was more of a do or die situation?” interrupts John.

“Most cases you’ll be seeing are. Besides, I believe in learning on the job.”

It hits him this is a perfect line between what he wants and what he once knew. He wants.

“John, it's only if you want,” says Ned, a little unsure.

“Oh, that isn’t a problem. I want to.”

“Good.”

The spent the rest of their meal exchanging funny stories about Alexander, who had lived with Ned for a long time. John mentally noted that he was the one who lived with Alexander now.

He walked home in the sun. Home. Alexander opens the door, and the second the door is closed behind him John just kisses him. He runs a hand through Alex’s hair, who relaxes into the kiss. He can’t wait to explain what a good day today was. Then Alex pulls back.

A voice from the kitchen, distinctly male and not one who should be witnessing this says, “Well don’t stop on my account.”

Its Hercules. He’s got Philip on his knee. It would be adorable if it weren’t for the larger issue at hand.

“Honestly boys, in front of guests?” says Eliza.

Hercules grins. He looks too smug. “So who gets to deal Lafayette?”

John says, “He already knows. I think.”

“Motherfucker,” is the tailors eloquent reply.

 _How did you ever fool anyone?_ signs Alexander.

“I didn’t have y’all to drive me up the wall,” is Hercules reply, which, fair. “I actually had a point to make here,” he continues. “You were looking for up and coming, vocal abolitionists?”

All three of their heads nod. Phillip makes a very cute gurgling noise.

“Surprisingly, Aaron Burr."

Well. That’s not what John was planning on dealing with when he got home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Burr actually was a super vocal abolitionist. (Among being a notable Human Disaster) The dude is complex and problematic and I love him. 
> 
> Edward "Ned" Stevens, was a brilliant dude who basically discovered stomach acids, refused to support bloodletting and acknowledged the wisdom First Nations and used willow bark as pain relief. Thats significant because willow bark has the same ingredient as aspirin. 
> 
> This was just a really weird one to write (writer's block can suck it) but I hope it was still a fun ride!!


	15. negotiate a peace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me to me: You do not have time to write today, or really all weekend, or for the foreseeable future
> 
> me: is that a challenge? I have a spare hour here and I can pound out a thousand words. 
> 
> ANyways. There's a direct correlation between how much time I have to write these and how much ASL is described. Research is hard yo. 
> 
> I also have mad respect for authors with regular schedule updates, because, gentle readers, you are never going to get that from me. Sorry?

Until Hercules announcement the previous day, Alexander had been planning a normal day . Well, normal being relative. He woke up in bed with both John and Eliza. Any semblance hinting that it was improper had abandoned him. But he moved forwards, wondering if it was something they should talk about. Well, you know what he meant. 

Philip was still sleeping. He took a minute to admire his son. Time seemed to pass quickly with a tiny human to visibly demonstrate the passing of time. 

It's a pretty standard routine. Bread, coffee, dressing quickly and rounding up all his necessary papers from his desk (and the dining room and the bedroom and floor). Quickly looking to the curtains, then kissing his wife and his John. Yet another thing they might ought to “talk” about. 

He's in the office before Burr, but only by a few minutes. Good, he has time to make a plan. (Like he has a plan, convince Burr to let him and Eliza and John to work together to end slavery. Okay so John made the plan.) Burr is persuasive but Alexander knows Burr has a soft spot. He's got a mix of stubbornness and endearing announce where Burr is concerned. He's got this. 

Burr walks in. 

_ Burr!  _ he signs,  _ since when have you been an abolitionist? _

Burr blinks a couple of times. Perhaps not as caffeinated as Alexander. 

“Do you like, listen to me, at all?” asks Burr, speaking slowly.

_ Not when you talk like that.  _ Is his response. 

Burr sighs. “I regularly express this opinion, I've yelled while crumpling up bad arguments and twice in the last week, and you just haven't noticed?”

Alexander shrugs.  _ Did you have my attention or was I writing?  _

Burr sighs again, though not to cover up misunderstanding the sign. (Burr is probably the best at interpreting because he spends time with Alexander at his most frantic and has no reservations, when they're alone, about saying “I completely missed that.”) 

“I imagine you were writing,” says Burr, neither confirming nor denying. Typical.

_ It takes my wife at least three tries to get my attention. Washington ( _ who's name sign is  just the sign for king but using three fingers instead of two to make a W, Alexander standing by that the Presidency should be a lifelong commitment ) _ barely got it down to two.  _

Burr sighs again. “Alexander, we've already taken four cases in three months of practice for freed slaves. What do you think my opinion is?”

_ I try not to associate with people not in favour of ending slavery.  _ Signs Alexander.  _ You'd be intolerable if you didn't hold that opinion.  _

“That's fair,” says Burr. Then, “why are you upset about this this morning?” 

_ Here let me know because Eliza and John are just as passionate with more free time.  _

“And John is still living with you two?” Asks Burr. 

_ Yes _

“The Godfather of your child currently lives with the child. That's rather preemptive of you.” 

In his worrying about hiding his secret lover from the bustling New York, he had forgotten about that impression. 

_ Well, I'm certain someone will kill me over something I've written. Only a matter of time.  _

“I just carry a knife in my umbrella.”

Alexander isn't even gonna touch that one. It's Burr, so he probably isn't joking. Burr makes no move to demonstrate. Alex takes him at his word.

Somehow, the conversation leads to Alexander ending the day with leading Burr back home. He hopes dinner can stretch to four. It's tricky to walk and sign so it's mostly quiet. Alexander also hopes John's first reaction isn't to kiss him (though two days in a row would just be funny and Alex really likes being kissed by John.) 

He solves this problem by making Burr walk in first. Fortunately (well…) no kissing occurred. 

Dinner is unpredictably loud. 

Eliza gets very excited about the subject, though she isn't yelling not angry the way Angelica can get, Eliza starts to loose a bit of her awareness of exactly how loud her voice is. It doesn't help then none of Johns manners come into play when slavery in involved. Which 1) fair and 2) is super endearing and Alexander can feel his heart dancing in his chest. Burr doesn't yell, but his passion is evident and his hands start moving and a glass of wine or two later means he's normally pretty polished and safe speech gets unrefined and raw. It's interesting to see how this is all it took to really crack open Aaron. (Later he’ll joke with John how they should have started with this. Though it's possible Aaron wasn't ready until after the war.) 

If he feels any pang of sadness and the people he loves most being able to talk like this, to argue and debate, well that's private. This is good. They work so hard, they deserve some fun. Alex will be sad later. 

Later just leads to the hasty, drunken mess that is the first draft of many, many possible bills for when they get influence in government against slavery. John puts in a subtle dig (or seven) against southern plantation slave owners. They get exceedingly filthy. Burr and Alexander, both seasoned soldiers, are blushing. Eliza is not, John, the next morning, also blushes. Eliza has the worst spelling, Alex writes so he can also write his own thoughts and communication on a separate sheet, since all three are reading over his shoulder. Eliza has excellent ideas for integration into the community and workforce. Aaron (when he becomes Aaron is unclear but Burr is too stuffy for drunken decelerations) uses language Alexander only heard in court, definite and strong and succinct.

Then, “It's so late, my god it's so late I don't want to impose,” says Burr. 

“We don't have a guest bed set up but you can take the couch?” Offered Eliza, whose quick thinking saves them all. 

“But isn't John on the couch?” asks Aaron.

_ John sleeps with us  _ signs Alexander, probably more possessive than entirely warranted.

“Oh,”  says Aaron. He says it like it's half a question, but one he already knew the answer to. “I'm not that surprised. Try not to keep me up.”

“No it's not like that,” says John, though Eliza makes similar sounding sentiments. 

“Well, I mean, you don't need to  _ stop _ on my account. Just keep it down.” Aaron is smirking now, a subtle thing. 

_ Burr, you're like the B in S-U-B-T-L-E  _ signs Alexander. 

Aaron just laughs. Which, rude. “I'll take the couch then.” He says. 

They go upstairs, the three of them, making sure Philip has slept through their racquet, which he had, luckily. Eliza quickly braided her hair, while John struggled and made a much uglier pleat. Alex didn't have quite enough hair for it to be worth it. 

The wine and the hour and the day and the being parents make them usually quick to fall asleep, though often no one sleeps through the night. But they’re wide awake tonight. Sometimes Alexander sleeps better in the middle, but if he wakes up having forgotten where he is, things go bad. Tonight he's on the left, John in the middle, and Eliza on the right. 

“Are y’all, you know, interested in what Aaron, implied?” Asks John, southern accent creeping in. Alex raises a hand so he can sign  _ yes  _ and Eliza says, “of courses, but Burr will be far too smug if we do anything tonight.” 

She then nestles into John's side and lays a hand on his chest. John looks to Alexander with wide eyes. Alex removes the space between his and John's lips. When they break apart, though Alexander has maneuvered just a hair closer, it's all Alexander can do is just smile and nod. 

Yeah, Alexander has a weird day, but he wouldn't trade it for anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alexander Hamilton did actually want the Presidency to be a lifetime occupation (its in a crash course video, I believe US History on the Revolution but I didn't have time to check that for sure). 
> 
> Evedawalrus was the one who directed me to the umbrella thing, which is in fact, true, and what made me so determined to get this out. I was like, how do I tie all of chapter 15 together? THE UMBRELLA! So thank you! 
> 
> Anyways, this is one of the rougher chapters of this fic but nonetheless I am proud of it and also just hoping y'all like it. I love writing Burr and these assholes.


	16. only 19 but my mind is older

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so this took SO LONG but I only have one more exam now (buts its math and honestly my math mark is gonna suck no matter what so whatever) and the semester has calmed down and ended (Gotta love five month semesters y'all) 
> 
> So say what you will about OC's but I need Abigail and I had the worst writers block when sorting this sucker out so give her a try, and let me know what you think at the end of this chapter! 
> 
> MOST IMPORTANTLY, THIS STORY HAS FAN ART!! THIS IS NOT A DRILL! All my dreams are alive and it was submitted to me on tumblr by the radiant and glorious and talented percyshell-why on tumblr so go them them and the art some LOVE because I AM SO HAPPY Y'ALL

Though she’s been working for Mr. Hamilton for six months now, Abigail isn’t really sure how she ended up eating dinner with her boss, her boss's partner (in law), her boss's wife, and whoever the cute guy with the freckles who opened the door is. Her boss shoots him looks whenever he thinks he’s in the clear. Crassly, she figures that with the energy he must have, he must need two people to burn it off on. (She knows it's horrifically unladylike to think like that, but she’s a working woman with a tiny deaf sister living in a much grimier area than the Hamiltons.) 

Besides, the Hamiltons, (and she’s going to refer to all three as Hamilton, even if the freckled one did call himself  _ Laurens _ , but he said it without much passion, compared to how musical he makes the name Hamilton sound. Besides, she needs some way to remind herself that he is taken) are passionately talking about abolition, so she’s in very good company. 

Burr looks to her every time John says something particularly inflammatory about the need to abolish slavery, and he’s seen the worst of it. She would know, with parents having escaped a virginian plantation. Not that she’ll let that one out, but it's nice to put the local stories of the kind, non judgemental doctor Stevens and the cute nurse. She now knows where her neighbour Sally got the stories about John being good with kids, considering when she walked in, he was playing with the infant she knows is named Phillip. Its nice to put it all together. (Sally is watching her little sister Mary.)

Eliza (until tonight Abigail had only heard her as Mrs. Hamilton from Burr, or the one time she was sorting a few of Mr. Hamilton's letters, Betsey, but Eliza told her to call her Eliza) is the most fun to watch, who goes back and forth between playing a good hostess, with her delicious food (the best Abigail has eaten in weeks, really), and then occasionally swatting and kissing both her husband and John. The first time she kisses John’s cheek, John freezes up. Mr. Hamilton’s eyes widen just a touch. (She will continue to call him Mr. Hamilton, and besides, as translator, her instinct is to look to him whenever anything happens. Not that she needs to translate tonight.) He doesn’t sign anything, but Eliza just glides over a position, and kisses Mr. Burr on the forehead. (Though she has even darker skin than Mr. Burr, his is still dark enough to cover most of his blush. She’s also lucky for it, helps her look unfazed when she’s in court.)

The conversation eventually turns away from the abolition plans, when Eliza says, “Boys, honestly, we have a guest.” John gives her a look, and considering Eliza was the loudest at the table a few minutes ago, Abigail has to hide a smile.

“It’s all right Eliza,” she says. “I’m a strong supporter of abolition as it is.” 

_ Of course she is _ , signs Mr. Hamilton. 

“Oh sweetheart, I never assumed you weren’t,” (and that's new, being in a room where not being an abolitionist is the insult), but Eliza continues, “But I specifically wanted to get to know you.” (Its genuine too, Abigail has seen many jealous wives of cheating husbands in her months of work, but Eliza is kind and open and genuinely wants to get to know her. Which is nice.)

“Well, there really isn’t much. I’m nineteen and I have a little sister named Mary, who’s deaf, which is why I wanted to learn to sign so badly.”

“And how are you finding it?” she responds. 

“I’m really enjoying it. It's tricky to learn a new language, but my sister just loves it and it's easier than learning to read and write was,” which is more than she meant to let known but it might be the wine talking. Its a very nice wine.

“Really?” asks John. She can tell he has the slightest accent of somehow raised with money and probably grew up reading. 

“Well, I have had much more help with learning to sign, since I taught myself to read,” then taking a risk, but calculated considering this is just Mr. Hamilton’s family, “It's actually having to decipher Mr. Hamilton's chicken scratch that has really given me mastery of written English.” 

They laugh, but is a kind, actually amused laugh. She’s amused herself with how she’s had to learn to speak since being taken on.

“Well at least you’re handwriting is helping someone,” John quips. She wonders if they know the looks they give each other hold nothing back. She wonders if they’re aware she’s realized they’ve gotten together, in some intimate form. (Eliza was away for a week, Alexander had told her, then two days later he came in with a bruise and bite mark half tucked behind his collar. She won’t let on, but Burr was looking as well, and she nodded when he looked to her with the look on his face she knows means ‘can you believe this?’)

Then Eliza asks, “What is court like?”, a question so open ended Abigail wonders where to start. 

“Well, it took a little while for the judges to agree I could argue on Mr. Hamilton’s behalf. So my first month was just attending meetings with clients and coming with Mr. Burr in court. They have, different styles.” Right then, both Mr. Hamilton and John snort, while Burr rolls his eyes.

“I love it though. Every day we get to solve problems. And I like getting to have my voice be taken seriously. People pay attention because my voice is saying something they think is important. That’s new.” John stops laughing then and looks at her. Mr. Hamilton looks at her in a curious way too. He cocks his head to the side, like he didn’t know that speaking his words has had such an effect on his. 

There’s a few beats of silence. 

“I’m so glad you’ve found us then,” says Mr. Burr, ever the diplomat, but he says it with a surprising amount of emotion. 

The rest of the night calms down from there, with a few notable exceptions. She gets to see Mr. Hamilton hold his son, a tableau so unlike anything she’s seen before, the look of tenderness of his face. He clears the table with John, and she can feel the lines their eyes cut across from each other. Then she realizes there’s a triangle formed, Eliza looks at both of them too. Well then. That’s good, she didn’t want to have to tell Eliza her husband has cheated on her. 

Another small highlight: she’s kicks all their asses at poker. But more importantly, she gets to bring food home. So when she picks up Mary from Sally (who she will make so jealous with the anecdotes about John Laurens), Mary’s eyes widen when she tastes the rich food. 

Abigail signs,  _ I know right! _

She doesn’t understand the value of the night until a few weeks later, when she lets herself into the office and Mr. Hamilton is making very high pitched and unique noises (to describe them using words from Mr. Burr.) 

Once he stops flapping his hands and dancing around the office, he manages to sign,  _ I was chosen for the constitutional convention!  _

She wonders what that will mean for her, but only for about a minute, as Alexander calms down slightly enough to stand still, look her in the eyes with a pleading look and signs  _You'll come with me right!_

And she signs back  _Yes, yes, yes._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The glorious thing about writing Hamilton fanfic is I can have a black girl help write the constitution while acting as aide to a disabled guy and NO ONE CAN STOP ME!! 
> 
> (That said, as always, if I have gotten something wrong, executed something awkwardly or said something offensive, pls let me know. You can do it on anon on tumblr even but thank you so so much)


	17. constitutional convention

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes this took so long!! Sorry about that... though frankly I'm really proud of this one. Epistolary is really fun y'all. Also if you have left comments, I love you, I thank you for your motivation, because things have been, well, unmotivating to say the least. Real life is painful. 
> 
> Anyways, thanks for being here!! On with the story!

_ Dearest, Alexander, _

_ I am writing this shortly after you have left. John is entertaining Phillip, who is too young to understand the impact his father is going off to make. You will make it right for him, love.  _

_ I miss you already. It is not that me and John have not fallen into a rhythm of sorts, because we have, (not to prey on your jealousy, it is inevitable when we regularly are at home during the day), but it is different knowing you aren’t going to be home at the end of the day. Never doubt your place when you come home, because we are yours and you are ours. That said, go and make us proud.  _

_ (I have thought on your stories during my own absence, and with ensure John enjoys similar pleasures from what you have shown him. Perhaps when you return he will be of mind to accept our joint affections.) _

_ Affectionately Yours, _

_ Betsey _

 

_ Dearest Betsey,  _

_ You will be the death of me, sending such letters when I am surrounded by men with the imagination and passion in their whole person that exists in your little finger. That said, your words ease my soul. It is more grim than I would have imagined. Slavery, while debated, has tougher roots ingrained than I had feared. (When faced with particularly asinine comments, Abigail barely manages to keep from rolling her eyes. I am much less composed.) The particular painful notions to swallow is from men I know are fundamentally doing the best they can, but cannot picture how we will do without slavery, and cannot tackle the issue without making things worse. As if we afford to wait! (Not that I have to let you know that).  _

_ On a lighthearted note, James Madison is an entertaining fellow. It is his draft we are working from, and while I have ideas I feel these men must know, he has done a surprisingly detailed job, though I imagine what I have planned will blow him quite away. Even so, he is very respectful and soft spoken, and though he is under no obligation to do so, his notes on the proceeds are the most meticulous.  _

_ (Please do ensure John’s comfort in all this, but I urge you to allow him be comforting to you as well.) _

_ My love burns stronger in the face of all this, _

_ Yr Obt Srvt, _

_ Alexander _

 

_ ( _ _ Folded on a hidden little note inside the envelope containing Eliza’s letter) _

_ A, _

_ There is nothing I have seen in my years that rivals the beauty of Eliza in the angles I have taken to viewing her. When you return, I look forwards to seeing you through my opened eyes. _

_ J.L. _

 

Eliza and John wake up in the morning slightly colder than usual. Alexander is normally the one to keep them warm. “Do you ever think about how lucky we are to be alive right now?” asks Eliza. 

“I do whenever I’m around you,” says John. Then he yawns, and curls in closer to her. He’s the little spoon today. 

“Why, Mr. Laurens, was that an innuendo?” Eliza teases. He looks up and she’s turned ever so slightly red. “Because Alexander offered me some suggestions. If you are interested.” 

John can only think of how it felt to have Alexander suck and kiss his way down John’s neck. He’s blushing now, but it's tempered by want for the woman next to him he didn’t expect to love. She sometimes can barely believe this is a man who survived through bloody war, the catastrophe frozen hell that was valley forge, and fought in duels. Perhaps, she’ll muse, gentleness is a luxury. 

“I am very interested. Not just because of Alex,” He manages to get out, while turning over the face her. 

She smiles at him, but her eyes are wide with lust, “Like I said, lucky.” She kisses him with more desire than he’s experienced from her. Not particularly surprising, they are all equally matched in wit but he is impossibly hard very quickly in his sleeping pants. His brain comes back online to match pace, carding his hands through her hair. 

If he has once thing going for him, he’s a quick study. He makes his way kissing down her neck. She wore one of Alex’s undershirts last night and looks downright edible. He sucks bruises on her chest, and she has gotten a grip on his hair, right near the roots. It’s good. It’s very good. 

Then, Philip starts crying in the other room. It sends both of them immediately out of the moment, and both run to the crying infant's side. Eliza picks up her son and soothes him, and they head down to make some breakfast. Philip eats most soft foods, but his teeth coming in have him crying and crying. 

 

In Pennsylvania, Alexander sees the sunrise only because he never went to sleep. His plan is longer than anticipated, his plan for the coast guard went a bit too long, but it is good. It is very good. There’s a knock on the door. “Its Abigail, are you awake Mr. Hamilton?” She says rather loudly. If he had been asleep, he would have woken. He raises his fist to knock twice evenly on the wall. It lets her know the door is open and to come in. (one knock followed by two in quick succession is ‘don’t come in’)  They use it around the office because he won’t get up when writing because he is a ridiculous man. She walks closer to the desk. 

_ Ready?  _ He signs. 

“Yes, I have my flask of hot water with lemon and honey so I can talk for as long as you need,” (It's times like this she wonders what it would have been like to secure normal employment. Not nearly as important.) 

Abigail knew from the subsequent look on his face and sheer magnitude of papers on his desk that the rest of the convention was, simply put, not prepared. 

 

_ Mr. Burr, _

_ I spoke for six hours today. Six. I cannot tell you who is worse for it, my voice, Mr. Hamilton's hands, or James Madison, as we critiqued his Virginia Plan. I agree, with a strong central government. _

_ It is funny, to many of these men, Mr. Hamilton is a radical. All his points to me seem justified and fair.  _

_ You would not believe what it was like. To stand there with all their eyes on me, my eyes on Mr. Hamilton to translate every words from his hands. James Madison following along with the papers Mr. Hamilton had written. _

_ Mr. Hamilton and I had to sign to each other for the rest of the day because my throat was so sore. But I managed to thank James Madison when he complimented us. He said I was “very well spoken,” and that my “clear passion and confidence was just as important for convincing them as Mr. Hamilton's plan is.  _

_ I am not allowed to mention any details about what exactly is happening, because I am technically part of the convention. I cannot imagine how my parents would feel. But, in both cases, it is a lot.  _

_ Affectionately, _

_ Abigail _

 

“Mr. Madison,” Abigail says, giving the man in question a tap. “I was wondering if you had a minute.” 

“Abigail,” says James Madison. “It is a surprise to see you without Mr. Hamilton.” 

Without meaning to, she raises an eyebrow. He back peddles, “Its refreshing, thats all. I’m amazed he can walk around without the means to pontificate..” 

“Ah, Mr. Madison, my job is mostly to alleviate Mr. Hamilton's family concern that he will write himself into arthritis.” 

She gets a smile for her efforts. She smiles back.

“That's understandable,” he says blandly, then after a moment, as if remembering a piece of advice, to be more outwardly interesting “What is it like for you? My life has been politics as long as I can remember.” 

She looks at him, making sure he’s serious. He looks patient. She wonders who taught him that look, it's a similar one Burr (so if the Hamiltons are rubbing off on her this isn’t the worst consequence)i will wear, when he’s interested enjoy to wait for a response.

She makes James Madison wait. 

Then, “I imagine you’d have an easier time of it all if you could continuously remember you all want the best for the country. And that everyone deserves a chance have their voice heard.”

“So to speak, as it were,” says James, with the same bland look, but with a smile in his eye that wasn’t there before.

(He gives her the same look when Alexander is called to sign his name on the Constitution, she follows half a step behind, and signs Abigail Reaves too. None who would stop her realize she had it in her until it was over. Alexander looks just as thrilled.)

 

_ Betsey and John, _

_ We still have fights to fight, but decisions have been made. I choose to believe my being here made an impact. I choose to believe that while things aren’t how I might believe is the best way, everything that has happened is miraculous in its own way. There’s an argument that we should all have died fighting, and yet, each morning, we have our sunrises.  _

_ And I have you.  _

_ There is more work to be done, but this is a step in the right direction. I have decided to plan for my next steps, the ones I get to take with you. Everything that can be done here has been done, and the seeds are planted, regardlessly if we see them bloom.  _

_ Yours, _

_ Alexander _

 

“Next steps we get to take together,” says Eliza with nothing by awe and pride in her voice. Alexander has spent days and night dreaming to speak again, yet for once, he doesn’t think he could manage. 

“We are so proud of you,” says John. (Which is hilarious because Alexander is just as, if not more proud of John’s passionate words on abolition, which he has started sending to James Madison.)

Phillip sleeps through the night now, and is almost a year old now. He has happy to see his father again, who held him all night while receiving welcoming kisses. But now they get some time alone. So Alexander presses his mouth into John’s. In his defence, he meant it to showcase some tenderness, all his love. There is hope and elation, but especially passion. 

He’s had to get creative without a tongue. And he’s put a lot of thought into it. He sucks on John’s lower lip, carding his fingers through the curly hair. John lets out a moan, which sends any residual blood in his brain south. 

(They haven’t actually done much yet. Eliza visited Angelica, and they spent an hour or so after Philip went to bed necking and John then asking to stop. He’s been getting progressively more confident.) 

Fortunately, Eliza. She says, “John, would you like to help me welcome back our Alexander? You can say no and it won’t change anything.” ( _ Our Alexander,  _ echoes in John’s mind long after.)

“Please, I want to I just,” John starts, then falters, “I just haven’t done anything like this.”

Alex wants to say a great many things, like in response to John’s words, “We haven’t opened our bed to anyone either,” or in response to John’s tone, “I’ve got you, I love you, just you wait darling.” 

“We’ll take very good care of you,” says Betsey, whose eyes are blown wide staring at the two of them, she’s taken her hair down, which flows on her shoulders, black and glossy and beautiful. She’s removed the top layer of her dress, a dark navy today, and her petticoat laid on the ground. Alexander would flush except his has John Laurens in his arms. 

“I love you two so much,” says John. It's a different John than Betsey would know, the soft man who Alexander has only gotten a few glances of. 

Alexander slips his fingers underneath the knot of John’s cravat, untying the neck cloth. He removes that first article, then kisses John, firmly this time. Alexander isn’t nearly as good as undressing men (that aren’t himself). He removes one hand from John's face, and beacons Betsey.

She nearly glides over, gleefully says, “My turn, Mr. Lauren's,” which causes John to blush very prettily. He signs a quick  _ thank you.  _ She is very capable of kissing with tongue, which, remarkably doesn’t hurt to think about. Its practical. Divide and conquer, he thinks, then begins to untie her corset. 

The candles are extinguished, the noises tried to keep down, but they missed each other, and it’s so good to have a full bed again. When they are done, Alexander is in the middle, John nestled with his back against Alex’s chest and Betsey clinging to Alex’s back. 

 

Elsewhere, southwards, James Madison writes two short letters. 

 

_ Thomas,  _

_ You are going to love what revolution has done for the place. Becomes familiar with the names Alexander Hamilton and Abigail Reaves, they will keep you on your toes. Dolley sends her love. _

_ J. Madison _

 

And.

 

_ Mr. Hamilton, _

_ I agree with many of your ideas, but that is not what is important. What is important is the people recognize the milestone our Constitution is, how all we are is people trying to make life better. I also cannot imagine a man with whom I would learn more from writing essays with. _

_ J. Madison _

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I looked at myself after writing this and was like, "elliot, ur 20k into a KINK MEME FILL and there's no smut" and then I laughed. If you want the only smut I've ever written (and its like a paragraph) it's in my hamburr one shot "melt my frozen heart" which you should go read!! (I'm letting you know this because I wrote in after the last chapter of this sucker and I can self promo) 
> 
> Honestly, thank you all so much, y'all are the best and I love you!!! 
> 
> (If you pointed out my horrible use of it's vs its, I hear you, and I tried this chapter I really did)


	18. our young nation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writers block is rough, school is rough, but yet here I am!! 
> 
> (If this is reminiscent of 5+1 fics, what do you think I learnt to write fic on)
> 
> Consider this like an Act 1 finale.

Eliza is having a bad wake up call. She’s up at the asscrack (Thanks Peggy) of dawn, because for the third day in a row, she’s woken up to horrible nausea. She’s wiping her mouth having come up from a respite from the chamber pot, to feel one of her lovers tying up her hair. He’s pressed up, ever so slightly resting his head on top of hers. 

A straight dark black hair tickles the side of her face. It’s her husband. 

“Morning, Alex,” she says. He lets go of her to sign,  _ Are you okay?  _ He must have gone to the kitchen first, because he hands her a glass of water. Bliss.

“I’m better now. Must have been something I ate.” 

_ We had dinner together and I’m not sick.  _ He signs, not outright dismissing her, just confused.

Her throat is raw from three days of waking up to her stomach ejecting its contents, so she switches to signing.

_ It is odd then. Must have been my lunch.  _ Alexander doesn’t look convinced, but lets it go. She signs,  _ John was out late last night. I’m sure we can justify a little more sleep. _

(She doesn’t mention that she was asleep before either came to bed. Ned had came by after dinner asking for John’s help. Alexander had a brilliant idea for another one of his essays. Alex explained, through excited signing, there was going to by twenty five in total. John had raised an eyebrow, and asked which number he was on now.  _ Twenty seven.  _ He then promised to come to bed afterwards.) 

Alex smiles, grabs her hand to raise her off the ground. 

_ Back to bed, husband. _

_ I love you.  _ He signs with his free hand.

John is dead to the world, snoring slightly. They curl back in. John must subconsciously recognize Eliza’s struggle to get Alex to sleep more, and sleepily wraps an arm around the man in question. (There’s a balance in making sure Alex doesn’t feel trapped, but as long as he is warm and awake when cuddled, he loves it.) Eliza for her part, just half lies on top of John. 

She hopes things will look better later.

 

Aaron is having a bad morning. Theo has been sick for a week now. He doesn’t want to come to work, but he’s suffocating regardless of where he is. So he walks to the office. And Alexander hasn’t shown up. He’s just, not there. No mention, no note, Abigail has no idea what’s going on. It turns out Alex was supposed to met with a client today, so Burr is suddenly and unexpectedly doing that meeting himself. 

The client is named Katherine, a woman with an approximation of Aarons pigment and Johns curls, looking for a divorce from her alcoholic husband. Alexander’s notes aren’t super useful (a shame, since Abigail proves quick, nimble and discreet providing them to Aaron along with another cup of coffee. He thanks her later), nor is his methods the way Burr plans on going about this. 

Its stressful, having to gleam the situation from Alexander’s notes and clues from Katherine herself. She doesn’t seem too ruffled, but it’s unprofessionalism. Fortunately, Abigail who arrives with a full coffee tray for the client . 

“Abigail,” says Katherine. Abigail looks up at her name, and Katherine smiles, “It is you! I didn’t know that Mr. Burr and Mr. Hamilton shared an assistant.” 

“Just the office space, I’m helping Mr. Burr out since Mr. Hamilton couldn’t make it in today.” Abigail says. 

“Well, they are very lucky to have you.” 

“Thank you,” Abigail replies with a genuine smile. “How is your little one doing?” 

Katherines face just lights up, “I’ve got three from the most recent litter. Beautiful little darlings. Are you finally going to adopt one of my prize joys?” 

“Perhaps,” says Abigail coyly. Its clearly an inside joke. Of course. He’s an outsider in his own meeting. 

(He’s felt so out of it since refusing to write with Alexander. He can’t stand it, putting his support behind the documents to support not ending slavery. Sure it’s more complicated than that, but he feels guilty either way. Abigail is thrilled they managed to have black slaves count towards the population. It's something to work with. Burr gets that, he really does. But he won’t stop fighting for this.)

The three wrap up the meeting, Katherine and Abigail laughing about, dogs, maybe. He hopes Alexander comes soon, maybe he’ll feel a little less lonely. 

 

Phillip isn’t enjoying lunch. All three of his guardians are late. Nowhere to be found. Mommy’s food is boring and icky. They seem to be getting used to his crying. That won’t do. He won’t eat it. No matter what noises mummy or the curly haired dad is doing to try and convince him to open his mouth. They aren’t getting it. He thinks hard. Then for the first time, he opens his mouth, “No!” 

Both of them trying to feed him start laughing. He thinks that means he doesn’t have to eat whatever is they want to feed him. 

John is having a bad afternoon. The nice sleep has worn off and whatever joy came from Phillips first word being an indignant, “No!” is gone. He feels exhausted. It's not that he isn’t proud of Alexander, he is, but any pamphlets John has been authoring keep getting pushed aside by these Federalist Papers. Which is great. He’s all for keeping the country together. But they aren’t done yet. 

He keeps seeing all these ex slaves, you can tell who was born free and who wasn’t because those who weren’t all keep ending up as his patients. He’s giving willow bark to patients with pains and pain from god knows what, helping to figure out how to modify activities from those whose broken bones set wrong. He hates seeing it. He’s been writing, sure, but it's politically stupid to release anything. It's been two months since Alex has come home. He wants to do more. 

He can only hope he is making things better for those that survive, but he wants to end it. 

He’s frustrated beyond belief. So he goes over his drafts again and again. He thinks of Burr, how he can be passionate but burn cool. He hates it, but he can be political. For this fight.    
  


Alexander has a bad dinner. He’s tired from getting the cold shoulder from Burr. Yes, he slept in and he’s sorry. It was a dumb mistake but he feels little regret. He’s taken on the role of feeding Philip. He’s missed his son’s first word. Which starts off upsetting, but gets frustrating as it’s apparently all Phillip will say all night long. He’s watching Betsey pick at food, who seems unwilling to repeat this morning’s heaving. John looks bad, he hopes not everyone is coming down with something. 

He tells himself it will be better tomorrow. 

 

Elsewhere,  _ elsewhen _ , Thomas Jefferson is having a wonderful day. He’s home, Monticello is beautiful and less painful than his memories. The grass looks greener for being free, his home looks more pristine for being now, officially on American soil. (He has no delusion that absence makes the heart grow fonder, but thinking of Martha isn’t a hobby he enjoys. So he opens the drapes, and acclimatizes.) He’s well aware everyone who is everyone knows he is home. He imagines there will be a letter soon from George Washington. 

He sits at his desk, waiting for a letter, waiting from his eldest, Patsy, on the next voyage home from France. He remembers writing his original declaration. 

And most importantly, he thinks of Alexander Hamilton’s name. And prepares. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thats the end of Act 1. There will be a decent period of time offstage (I have not quite worked out my timelines yet, but I will let you know on the next update) between the end of this (sans the Jefferson sections) and the next and future chapters. Historical setting is hard yo. 
> 
> I'm just floored by the love this story has gotten so if you have left comments or kudos, but especially comments, I adore you and thank you!!


	19. speak eloquntly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took so long because I actually tried for my first month of physics. (Fun fact, I am no longer trying)
> 
> This may seem very dense, but I actually have a plan, and chapters will begin to get longer, this is more me lining up the pieces. I'm trying to balance plot and character development and man foreshadowing is a blast when you've got the ending in mind.

“Sitting there useless as two shits, hey bend over, I’ll tell you where my shoe fit!” Abigail spits out the group of men. Among other satisfying lines she’s translated today have been “A civics lesson from a slaver,” and the fact that she’s going off Alexander’s angry and clever hands and she’s right in front of George Washington, president of the country. Her country. Their country. 

She’s making all the right connections. She’s in the most powerful room where it happens. Incredibly. How did she get here? How did any of them get there? (Well, she knows how she got there, being at the right place in the right time.)

But it is complicated. 

Aaron would start with losing Theodosia. And he would end with losing Theodosia. His wife is sick, suddenly, and he is helpless. John comes by frequently, as does Ned Stevens, as does Eliza. Abigail, bless her, brings a friend in tow, who is in need of work and good with kids. Aaron’s governess is a god send. But he spends two weeks a wraith, barely eating, sleeping only out of exhaustion and not in their bed. 

Little Theo has been growing, and for a minute, he curses her intelligence, because she understands enough to ask questions, and she asks many, repeatedly and loudly. Eliza brings Theo over to play with Phillip. There is more and more Hamilton children, the eldest girl is Angelica, Alex Jr, and James, which yet another soon on the way. He was being trusted with the secret they were going to name it John if it was a boy. (“We aren’t being presumptuous. You just need a break,” she tells him. Later it will strike him that he hadn’t even thought about Theo attracting a husband, as if it would be the only path he’d allow her) 

The two are getting a similar enough education that it doesn’t matter. It’s good for Philip to learn needlework, jokes Alexander one afternoon, a month and eight days after (he keeps count for three months and then manages to not have her running through his head every minute), Alex signs,  _ Trying to learn to mend stockings.  _ Eliza watches the kids, with seemingly endless patience to help with misplaced stitches and “That’s wonderful dear”’s. John teaches him to cook, who was desperate for true southern food, tracked down recipes and getting Abigail to sample them for authenticity. Burr doesn’t really get it, but learns to make biscuits out of it. Alexander comes home and makes Burr rapidly sign to discuss cases both dull and complex that demand full use of his brain for a few hours. He’s lucky. He’s so lucky. 

He comes back to see Alexander shouldering his work and Abigail practically running the place. He manages to come back to it. And he’s glad to be helping people, but everything feels much much shorter, like he is running out of time. And it is that feeling that springs him into action. 

But somehow, the little actions have added up, and they’re a family at this point. He won’t be okay for a very long time. But he can sit at the Hamilton’s dining table, watching the children, ignoring the threefold flirting along with Abigail’s eye rolling, communicate in their mix of hand signs, facial expressions, and no less than three languages (Theo has taken to latin, which fascinates Abigail and Hamilton, who have both never had a good time to learn, where Philip has fallen for French. Spanish is off the table, literally, it makes Hamilton's face fall.) They’re learnt to adapt, somehow. 

Then George Washington darkens the doorstep. Alexander, regardless of his life, is wanted for Washington’s Cabinet. Congress approved him for Secretary of Treasury in minutes. Minutes. (And by extension Abigail, and all of them afterwards) Aaron can work with politics.

So around and around they start again, Burr thought.

 

John would say it started when George Washington annoyingly knocked on the door right before John was going to go off and make out with Eliza for a little bit. Human mortality was weighing on him, the kids where dears who didn’t question his presence. (He wasn’t Uncle John, or any false label, just John, and but they had to keep a few things out of mind to keep the peace. Kids.) He has his fingers crossed for privacy a little later. John didn’t know the name Jefferson, nor did Eliza, who shrugged it all off, but Alexander exchanged more and more letters with James Madison.

 

Alexander is immediately and fully immersed in ideas. Playing the political games, it would be unwise to kick the hornet's nest and immediately starting with ending slavery, though it would sooth a long lasting itch in their house. But that’s not his only plan, because there’s more to their fledgling government. A national bank. He is up basically for three days in a row, writing and crossing out. He tracks papers around the house. And office. And James (who is crawling!! Crawling!!) is chewing on a rough draft and Angelica and Philip are dramatically reading them, which must be Eliza’s influence. God he loves them. 

 

Really, it doesn’t start until Eliza kissing Alexander goodluck and goodbye outside the house. She does it twice, once for herself and once for John, who looks on with any envy buried deep. It doesn’t start until all the hours they’ve spent thinking of how to end slavery, all the people they’ve gathered together hits Alexander looking the magenta clad man on the other side of Washington. 

Jefferson is brash. Alexander has heard a few stories, the man keeps a locket with a curl of his old dead wife’s hair around his neck, that he taught himself Spanish to read Don Quixote, that he owns well over a hundred slaves. He can see Abigail calming herself down, but Alexander struggles. He doesn’t want this man head of state. He doesn’t want this man anywhere near his country or his family or any of it. And then, Jefferson opens his mouth.  

He turns to Abigail.  _ Ready?  _ He signs.  _ For this ass? Born ready.  _ Is her response. 

She isn’t yelling, but her pace is just as breakneck as Alexander’s hands fly. Maybe once she was a mimic, but now they are both something just a little bit more. They will make this bank happen, they will end slavery. (She has always had big goals and dreams. She has been talking with John one night and he told her “Symbiosis. You are his voice and he gives them a reason to listen.”) 

(She doesn’t consider how really, there is only the five of them in the little room Madison will one day call the cabinet. She thinks a little bit bigger.)

 

Alexander goes home, after they split ways. He is greeted by John first, once inside, who kisses him twice. It is late, so he only gets to check on his children. His beautiful sleeping children, who aren’t going to come of age without the end of slavery. They will witness justice. 

(Elsewhere, Aaron Burr is explaining how government works, what Uncle Alexander is doing. She has lots of questions, and asks if he is going to go too.) 

But Alexander, he creeps back down. And with his loves, they put their heads and notes and plans together. And Alexander does what he does best, he writes. He is sending out huge documents to Burr and Abigail and Washington and Angelica to proofread. But he’s too busy to really pay attention to who is sending them back.

Eliza is running around, chasing after children and her boys. John has taken over cleaning dishes, (and half the time, the entire kitchen as is) and Alexander will practice signing with the children which kills an hour nice and quietly. Alexander signs  _ love and precious  _ and it’s the easiest ways to have pet names, until Angie asks why John and Mommy have the same name signs. But it doesn’t change that she feels so busy. (Being in the early stages of pregnancy yet again is both normal for her and yet still draining.) But she finds herself missing contact with her sisters.

 

It's John who manages to put it all together. He is cleaning up the kitchen after he fell asleep holding James, and Betsey made dinner. Only fair really, and he’s humming to himself, a song Angelica used to sing. He finds it is odd that neither of his partners have talked about her recently. He goes upstairs, to Eliza in a nightgown and Alexander in an undershirt and breeches. They’ve all let down their hair, the kids have been asleep for almost an hour, and they look delicious. Alexander kisses him first.

After a very satisfying orgasm, he lays down in the middle. And he makes a little joke about not hearing from Angelica for a while. Then Eliza sits bolt upright and says, “Holy shit!” 

A panicked minute later, they realize it: they haven’t had a letter from Angelica in months. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, I hate the troupe of killing of a women to deepen a man's pain or whatever. Trust me, I have a plan and a cast and I will flip it on its head soon enough. 
> 
> Also, incase it was not obvious, I hate tjeffs. Like its a complicated sort of hate but bOY DO I HATE HIM. 
> 
> The next chapter is literally gonna be called "women in the sequel" and y'all aren't prepared (and it will be out sooner). And thank you so much for this!! Can you believe this has 5k hits!?!? I sure can't, so thank you so so so much.


	20. women in the sequel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> three darkened doorsteps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk what this two days two updates thing is but I am living!! This might be my favourite one so far y'all. 
> 
> (At this point, I will write fic if someone does my physics homework but its fine lol) 
> 
> This chapter is brought to you by half mourning dresses and cabinet battle 3 which you are at an advantage for if you are familiar with them.

1)

By the time they reclaim the letters that have piled up somewhere between London and New York, there's a picture emerging. Her husband was sick, and then he was dead and has been for six months, and then she was lonely. The scared and frustrated and heard about Jefferson coming back to America and being head of state. (Alexander would have liked that warning) and finally, that she is coming. To New York. To be with her family.

And they have less than a week before she arrives in New York Habour. 

The panic is bubbling, Alexander trying to polish off as much as he can at the office, Burr retreats into his office with plans, Abigail running back and forth between them and visiting with clients. John and Eliza each go out for food, and both forget something (John rosemary, since he was out half the night acting as a midwife, Eliza eggs, because she’s unused to not having them on hand), and are out when Angelica arrives. 

Philip is home though. 

He working on a embroidery piece, a present for Theo, so he can’t show her. So it is slow going without anyones help, but Angie has no interest in sewing, she likes working on maths. James is with mommy and John. That’s okay, Philip is a good big brother and can watch Angie for a half hour. 

Then there’s a knock at the door. 

“Alexander!” says the voice. “Eliza!” 

He isn’t technically supposed to open the door. But that’s for strangers. Only John and Mr. Burr and Ms. Abigail call his parents by their first names. So it is probably okay. But he wants to be careful. John tells a joke he isn’t supposed to hear about a candle stick used to kill someone. He doesn’t want to kill anyone, but he feels a little safer holding the heavy brass candle holder. Angie stands behind him, maths long forgotten. 

He walks to the door, “Who is it?” Angie nods. She’s quiet with new people. 

“It’s Angelica, are you alright? I haven’t gotten letters in months.” Her voice sounds a bit like his mums, but different. She sounds nice like his mum. Angies eyes widen. 

“I’m Philip, and my little sister is Angelica too!” He says. 

“Philip?” says Angelica, still through the door. “Where are your parents?”

“Dad is at work, Mum is-” he stops because he isn’t supposed to tell people if his parents aren’t home. Angie also happened to punch his arm. Whatever. 

His sister Angie says, “You sound nice, but we don’t know you. You can’t come in.” 

The adult Angelica is quiet for a minute, then, “That’s okay. I’m glad you are such smart children. I need to talk to your parents, so I’m gonna stay out here until the come back and we can be properly introduced.” 

“Okay!” says Angie, and wanders off. 

“John says proper introductions are a classist institution,” (Philip later learns he pronounces institution wrong but neither here nor there) says Philip. 

Angelica laughs, “I bet he does.” It isn’t mean though. Philip has decided he likes this Angelica too. Then, from further away, he hears his mother, who practically sings, “Angelica!” Who responses with an equally melodic, “Eliza!” 

(Later there is lamb with rosemary and custard. Angelica is in almost all black, except for a dark pink shawl. His dad signs a lot slower with Angelica around, and when he gets too fast John translates. No one pulls out little books they all keep for ideas. Angelica is very pretty and nice and seems especially fond of Ms. Abigail.

Once he is supposed to be asleep, they are a lot louder, words he isn’t allowed to repeat describing letter delivery people, Congress (which he only knows because of Theo), and someone named Thomas Jefferson. There’s more laughter once the man’s name is said. Philip hopes to find out why.)

 

2)

Angelica is in limbo. She used to be a politician's wife, if not one by her own right. But she had been involved in the designed feminine circles in public. She’s credible, but only to a point. She doesn’t have the ability to make in these circles anymore. Maybe if she went alone in Britain. But she doesn’t want to. 

She is babysitting. Her sister is running a household and a half (half belonging to Aaron Burr), has three children with another very soon on the way, not to mention running abolition meetings. John is working as a night nurse with muscles and spends time not at home with Burr. Alexander is breakneck as always, even at home he is full of energy for seemingly everything that comes his way. Be it children or politics or full forced rants about Jefferson. (She knew him, once, he was difficult to swallow then, but now is a symbol of everything they are trying to change.) (If it wasn’t for the children, she imagines they would have put up a board with his likeness to throw knives.) Abigail works the hardest. She is Alexander’s secretary and translator and yet, she has something clever behind her eyes. She’s young, her mid twenties, no husband and taking notes on everything and everyone presented to her. 

And Angelica stays home and accompanies the governess, helps whoever is cooking in the kitchen, and slowly feels as if she is going crazy. 

One evening, everyone is out. Out and about and she’s put the children to bed and wallowing on the couch with some tea (she keeps it hidden, her revolutionary family would tease her mercilessly but yet she developed a taste for it in London), though the night is rainy and cold, there’s a knock on the door. 

It’s a woman. Closer in age to Angelica herself. And she is beautiful, a fact Angelica hasn’t realized with people in what feels like forever but is only eight months (she wears less and less black everyday, replacing it with colours slowly. The woman has dark hair hiding her darker rich eyes. She has bright red lips, to match her richly coloured dress and once Angellica invites her in, a bruised eye. Angelica’s blood boils. 

“You aren’t Mr. Hamilton,” says the woman, which is new. 

“That would be my brother in law,” says Angelica, “My name’s Angelica Schuyler” (Her husband’s name isn’t helpful at best, the memory is painful at worst). 

“I’m so sorry,” says the woman, turning her head just so subtly away. “I shouldn’t have come. I’ll be on my way.” 

In a nowadays rare display, Angelica reaches out and grabs her hand. “Back to whoever gave you that bruise?” The woman looks up at her. 

“He isn’t always like that,” says the woman, quieter, like she doesn’t quite believe it. Angelica raises an eyebrow. “I brought it on myself,” she says, and looks to the ground. 

“There is nothing that you could do that excuses  _ that _ .”  

“You don’t know anything about me. What I’ve done.”

“I can say likewise. Sit down with me, let me get you a drink. If I can’t convince you otherwise, fine, you can go.” Angelica is flying by the seat of her damn pants. Figuratively, she doesn’t wear pants. “I know there’s greatness in you.”

“Alright, Mrs. Schuyler,” says the woman. “I like coffee?” 

“Ms. Schuyler, technically. Call me Angelica, and you are?” 

“Mrs. Reynolds. But I would prefer Maria, if you are Angelica.”

Angelica sits the poor thing down, puts a cup of coffee in her hands. Maria takes it black but with a lot of sugar. Angelica pointedly looks away. 

 

When John comes home and starts on breakfast (he’ll sleep for a few hours afterwards) she’s convinced Maria to talk to Burr about a divorce. She learns about what James Reynolds had planned later, weeks later, when she comes to the divorce hearing. It makes her feel sick, but she gives what she hopes are hopeful looks to Maria. And the divorce goes through. They celebrate. (She tells Eliza, later, what had been in Mr. Reynolds twisty heart. Eliza smiles. “Alexander is well satisfied.” Angelica rolls her eyes.) For the first time in a while, she prays, grateful to having been in the right place, grateful for what skills she knows. 

(It is not until the two have moved in together, realizing they both wanted a place to live and it made sense to have each other, does she realize. She is sitting in an armchair, with a mutt that followed her home one day that neither woman had the heart to chase away, sitting on her lap and it all comes together. She is in love. That is the feeling in her chest. Maria, a few weeks after the divorce, starts showing a wicked sense of humour. It quickly becomes a mix of puns and wordplay and biting retorts. 

“We would have been so good,” says Angelica one night over a dinner for two.

“Agreed, but could you be a  little more specific?”

“You have wit and charm and had you been in another position, we could have been so much more.”

“I don’t want to be a society lady. I like working.” Maria is a waitress and enjoys choosing how much attention and of what type she provides to each customer. 

“I know. That’s what I love about you,” which just sort of slips out. 

Maria smiles, her eyes soften and crinkles, “I love you too.”

Which shouldn’t be surprising, she says it often - before leaving their apartment and before sleeping and when Angelica makes something spectacular for dinner- except apparently Angelica hasn’t been fucking listening. 

“Holy shit,” says Angelica, stareing with utter adoration at the woman she loves. 

“There we are,” says Maria, and she leans into for a kiss.)

 

3)

John, intellectually, understands the leaps and bounds they’ve both made to be sitting at Burrs desk, comparing notes and discussing all the pieces in play, the rising slave population, agreements made at the convention about 1808, the common arguments for and against, and the people vocally one way or the other. It’s not a matter of what they know and who they know, it’s getting it all together. 

They just don’t have the platform. They’ve put together a lot, and they have the heart and the facts.

John bangs his head against the desk. Twice. Then a pause. Then, with each bang, “Why.” “Is.” “Humanity.” “Awful.” 

Burr sympathetically puts his hand on John’s shoulder. (He ignores the hickey on the other ones neck, exposed by the stretch.) 

“There’s someway to move forwards, we just haven’t thought of it yet,” says Burr. (He isn’t an optimist, not really, but there’s a deep down collection of embers. He burns slow.)

Then, a knock on Burr’s office door. “Come in,” says Burr. 

Abigail walks in, “Oh good, John you’re here. Alexander fell asleep. I’m hoping you have a method for waking him up.” 

John sat up and said, “We can let him sleep for a bit. But yeah, Eliza and I have a system. He’s better, but sometimes panics when he runs himself down like this.” John says it fondly. Burr more and more forgets that technically, they are breaking laws of both the church and state. Burr doesn’t give a damn. 

“Alright, anything I can help with?” asks Abigail. 

“We’re trying to step back and look at slavery as something we can end without, like, massive death and destruction for everyone,” says John, sliding his chair to make room for her.

“Without me?” asks Abigail. 

John looks to Burr. He feels a bit like he’s been hit by a carriage. 

“Oh my god, you didn’t even think to ask me!” she says, angrily, but mindful of Alexander sleeping in the other office. 

“No,” says John. 

“We’re sorry,” says Burr, and it’s genuine. 

Abigail sighs, and that’s when they really feel guilty. “Remember this. My job is to be invisible when I’m translating but that doesn’t account for the rest of the time.”

“It won’t happen again,” says John. 

“That’s a promise,” says Burr.

She looks between them, sizing them up. “I believe you.” A pause, then, “show me what you have.”

John explains, though it takes a few minutes to get over the embarrassed flush. Burr steps in to add a few things. Abigail has useful points to add, names and arguments and fiscal points she’s picked up from all the reading she’s doing keeping up with Alexander.

Finally she says, “One of you needs to go into government. Senate maybe? Alexander has his financial plan and his hands full. He’ll be a useful ally. And so will I.”

“Why aren’t you going for it?” asks John.

“You have the best connections,” adds Burr.  

Abigail rolls her eyes. Then, looking down, “Technically, I’m still a slave. Parents got me out as a baby, but I wouldn’t be safe under that type of scrutiny.” 

There’s a silence. Burr is worried John might hit his head again. 

“I’ll run for Senate,” says Burr. “But when this is over, you get to do civil service.”

She smiles at him, “Deal.”   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys like what I'm doing with this because I know what I'm trying to do but I'm always worried it isn't coming out right. 
> 
> As always, if I am wrong, awkward, or offensive (or all three!!) in my portrayal of anything, please let me know (you can do so anon here or my tumblr) !!!
> 
> Fun fact, with this chapter this is the longest thing I've ever written, what the hell!!! That's crazy!! Thank you so much for all the wonderful feedback so far. I love you all.


	21. and on they go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops. 
> 
> To be fair, I wrote some crazy exams, had my aunt die, fell in love, wrote a play and and a novella. So, at least I came back and finished this beast.

Later, when they are older, wiser, and considerably less stressed and more intoxicated, they argue on starting points and pivotal moments. They are all seasoned at debate, especially with each other.

The trio calls the first point, at least, the first where the pieces hit their right places, the night where Alexander wakes up, sits upright, and takes a deep breath with his realization. (It has been dawning on him for weeks, but it comes without reason at three in the morning.) Eliza and John follow shortly behind, brought into alertness from the frequency of the nightmares in their bed.

At least there are no children crying, a blessing.

“Alex, are you alright?” asks John. Alex looks between the two of them, and his smile softens. His eyes melt. The moon is full and low in the sky, casting her bright light over them, and they have adjusted to each other.

 Alex signs, _I love you._

 “Love you too, you dork,” (god bless Peggy’s ways with words) says Eliza.

“What she said,” says John, followed by, “is there a reason we haven’t gone back to sleep?”

Alex’s face lights up, and John looks to Eliza, and says in endless fondness, “Here we go again, love.”

 _Actually,_ signs Alex. _I’d like to step out of the public eye. Burr is going to run for Senate. You’re running for the House. I just realized I want to handle the day-to-day things. We need more new voices, or we aren’t a movement, I’m just a crazy guy ranting. I’m okay to keep the hearth._

“Can I kiss him first or would you like the honour?” asks John.

“Be my guest, I have another few minutes to adjust to my husband manning a hearth.”

 _Wait_ , signs Alexander. _You are okay with this?_

“Politically, it’s clever,” says John.

“Besides, it’s not like you’re done with anything,” adds Betsey.

“And we could not be happier that you’re passing the torch,” says John.

 _I live to serve,_ signs Alex, with a smirk that Martha Washington calls the tomcat grin.

“Prove it,” says Eliza 

There is no more talking or signing, just them three, joined at every possible point. (The next day, they have more coffee than usual, and have to quickly redirect Angie from worrying about the bruise high on John’s neck.)  


Aaron realizes it only twelve hours later, when he arrives to work as the sixth person in the office. He blinks a moment, wondering if the world has gone mad. Normally he is first, or second, depending on what type of morning Abigail has had. Also, there is six people in the office.

But Alexander is first. Alexander is first, and greeting him at the door. Alexander is first, greeting him at the door, holding Aaron’s favourite mug of coffee, made how Aaron likes it. Aaron blinks again.

 “If you are courting me, Alexander, consider you have double the average number of  spouses, and I am not a prize,” are the words out of Aaron’s mouth, before he can really consider them. Abigail’s eye’s widen and she tries not to laugh.

Alex laughs. Aaron is also laughing. (He does not consider that joking with Alexander is common and _fun._ He had friends.)

 Alexander explains the plan. Well, John and Eliza interject with brief but brilliant additions. (Also, less helpful, but mushy compliments to each other.) It’s a very good plan. Abigail grins. Aaron looks to her. It’s also crazy and going to drive them to hate each other, he fears. Well, he considers to himself, he might just have to put himself past fear.

  
There is less grinning later, when smiling becomes a requirement. They have to be beyond good at filling the political climate with competence and what are currently radical ideals. They have to get abolition to be seriously plausible. It cannot be taken back, and the sooner it is done the less damage it can cause. It is late nights for Burr and Lauren's, wine and dine anyone and everyone. It is later nights, sitting around the Hamilton’s dining room table, planing arguments to convince any voter to their side.

(John has fallen asleep on Alexander and Eliza cannot handle how adorable it is, but there is a sharp pain of exhaustion pursuing them.)  


An agreed upon point as being a complete positive, is that Jefferson doesn’t see it coming. Suddenly, Aaron and John have major alliances and groups in both the house and senate. Suddenly, the rumour mills boast an abolition campaign trying for the Presidency. They do it cleanly, and swiftly, and keep moving forwards. They take a moral spin. They take a futuristic approach. There are skeptics, and disbelievers, but it’s becoming harder and harder when John Laurens makes arguments about freedom, and how they can establish themselves as a modern creation.

 The biggest issue he faces is that Aaron and John are well liked. Alexander had something too ambitious about him, and would always make a good scapegoat. Obviously he has _some_ influence in this all. But it is masked under endless layers. Burr and Laurens and careful and crafted and kind and outmaneuvering him, somehow.

 

Jefferson screams into pillows. He paces his study. He screams at tailors who bring subpar magenta coats. He cries on Madison.

“How do they make abolition look to _reasonable?!”_ He cries.

But, there is a year and a half until the next Presidential election. Jefferson understands two very basic principles, 1) this cannot continue and 2) he cannot get ahold of any high ground. So he functionally, has nothing to lose.

 

He hires several young men. They have to do anything they can to poke holes in this _agenda_. The arguments don’t have to make much sense, just give a cohesively and vague in details but negative voice. The overwhelming negative will cast doubt on the Burr  & Laurents duet. Perhaps he can safely take back the Presidency.

The tide is starting to turn, it seems. Except. There is a young man. He writes for Jefferson, ambitious little thing, named George. Unlike the Washington Jefferson knew, who had a sense of decency, Eacker seems to lack a moral centre. Eacker runs an pamphlet, pushes it, circulates it everywhere he can think to do so.

It accuses Aaron Burr of killing his wife.

 

They tell themselves they will move past it, they have come to far, and they are so close being able to announce their campaign plans. This is a setback, Aaron tells himself. No one actually believes it. But it is hard. This one sacrifice among it all, this one seems so insurmountable, with the way Aaron hasn’t gone home. He puts a mask on and does what he must, and does it so well. Except he comes back to their couch and shakes apart in their arms.

It goes on for a week. Then two. No one believes it. Actually, it casts some pretty damning light on other unfortunate rumours. Everyone agrees it has gone too far.

 But that doesn’t change that Theo is picking at her food, refusing the get dressed or leave her room.

 And Phillip knows where the guns are kept.  

 (None of them can know it, but he is scared as the sun rises over the city. Phillip is scared but loyal and understands the lack of unfairness of the world deep in his veins. He can do this.)

 Eacker shoots at six.

 

There is a time without a linear progression, just pain and screaming and Phillip doesn’t have a shot of keeping it straight in his head. So he doesn’t try, not until he can hear his mother screaming, and his fathers both crying. Then he tries to focus only to find he _can’t._  

He wants to tell them that he’s okay, that he regrets none of it. He wants to know if they are proud, if they can ever be proud, or if he’s ruined this for them. (Then he remembers that he’s dying, and if he can’t get answers now, he can wait another thirty years to see them again.)

So Phillip bleeds out in the arms of his three parents. This is not told to the press. But he is smiling as he goes. Later, he is called a hero. His last words are “Tell Aaron I’ll hug Theo for her. There is so much love.” This is told to the press. This is immortalized on his grave. This is repeated again and again. It becomes a painful memory for his parents, but all their memories are painful for a long time. But this has been true for them for years.

 

The story gets out. The sympathy builds in waves. Jefferson worries. Aaron, in his confusing grief stays a late night at the office. A young woman walks in. She says, “I need you to help me tell my story.” Aaron stares at her, but after a moment, is ready to write.

“My name is Sally Hemmings,” starts the woman. It is a name everyone will know in about two weeks. It is the name that destroys Jefferson. But Aaron doesn’t know this yet. Instead he writes exactly what she says, “I cannot read or write. But I bore five children fathered by Thomas Jefferson. Starting when I was thirteen. And I escaped.”

She talks all night. Burr writes all night. Her stories are awful. Burr will be grateful when he finishing editing. But in the meantime, every word has to be perfect. He asks Alexander to be _cruel_ as he reads it over. It is easily the best thing he has written when he is done. But he doesn’t ever read it again.

It is during the height of the Sally Hemmings scandal, that George Eacker, in a bid for refuge, exposes the entire story.

 

Suddenly, it is a national embarrassment to side with Thomas Jefferson.  

 

(It is Alexander who can barely get out of bed with grief now, and sometimes Eliza joins him. The guilt eats at Aaron.)

 

The abolition bill, or the Sally Hemmings Amendment passes easily.

 

Six months later, Abigail is elected the fourth President of the United States. (She offers the Vice Presidency to John. But Henry Laurens has been dead for months, and John can only laugh bitterly and then, later, cry into his lovers.) A young white boy becomes her Vice President. They make excellent partners in crime, he can handle certain aspects she didn’t learn as a slave. Theodosia works as her acting First Lady. She grows a vegetable garden in the White House and adopts a small dog.

They are out drinking, in celebration, everyone they know and love in one bar. There is elation and raw wounds and pride and the strangest feeling of “now what?”, echoed and signed all night long.

 

(The Hamilton's move uptown. Aaron and Theo move in. It’s a large house, on the edge of the city, where they have space and privacy. Eliza looks over her family and believes it was worth it, since it seems they don’t have an option to avoid pain. She is no longer young. None of them are.)

 

At least they have time. It feels like they have many more hours in a day. The children are all growing old. They are growing older slightly faster. Yet they can watch the pieces slide into place. They slowly pass over their torches to new, bright, ambitious children. It is less bittersweet once they start sleeping more. They recover. John writes more, Alex and Aaron less, and they send Angie to university. Eliza falls in love with her boys all over again, even though they are getting more and more grey haired.

 One day, in Abigail’s second term (!!!), Eliza looks up from her book to say, “We ought to do something with ourselves.”

 “Oh thank god,” says John.

  _I was starting to get bored,_ signs Alex.

 “No politics,” says Burr.

 And they are laughing again.

They establish the first private orphanage in New York City. (It’s not exactly low-stakes, but none of them actually know what that would look like. They hire good people and mostly come into the city a couple of times a week.) They get to raise children. They get to be old and in the city. Well known and respected enough that no one can really be bothered when, for the first time, John Laurens holds Alexander Hamilton's hand in public.

 

Sometimes, all three hold hands. It is excused as many things, old age, brittle bones, and, old fears. Which is true. But their favourite truth is love, whether or not anyone else gets it.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap folks!!
> 
> Thank you for sticking with me. Thank you for reading, thank you for your kind words, thank you thank you thank you. This is the first chaptered thing I've finished in YEARS and I am proud and elated and overjoyed anyone has come to visit my little story. 
> 
> (i still cry when I get comments and will be responding to them soon and so know I love you)
> 
> EDIT: it's been a little over a year since I published the first chapter of this, and I cannot believe the response I've gotten. I want to thank everyone who has read this and people who leave comments especially, you make my day every single time. 
> 
> With everything that is going on in our world, I hope I can offer a little piece of respite. I love you all. Thank you for your resistance and your words.


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